


Thirteen

by orphan_account



Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead (Telltale Video Game)
Genre: Multi, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-11-03 19:19:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 54,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10973709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: WoC!Reader/Negan, hints of Reader/Dwight, Reader/Others (bc this long wait for TWD is making me write these constantly)."The bad men are coming, you had to move. Now - you had a choice, if you can even call it a choice. There's the bad decision, and the worse decision, but that's all there is. That's all there ever has been. But still, there is something disgustingly innocent when you glance over at the Saviors, and stood too dumb to be afraid, because you certainly didn't think it was bravery leading you stand in front of all of those guns. There's the devil you know, and the devil you don't.This is a story in which the Saviors take their least successful hostage, which confuses Negan to no end, because he's certain you're important. Important enough to brand, anyway."What the fuck kind of name is Thirteen, anyway?" he'd chuckled at you, but in that moment, decided to take you home.This is that story.'





	1. The Big Baseball Bat Man

**Author's Note:**

> What even is this? An Au of my Au which is already an Au? Whatever, just go with it. I have problems and ya'll enable me. Dunkelheit is still being written guys, don’t worry. Protection Game too, I’m just…heck, it’s this massive wait until more TWD that’s getting me writing this constantly. I’m awful. Somebody stop me. Every trigger. No exceptions. Plan to get darker than even Dunkelheit at times. Brace yourself.

 

You’re a dirty, filth-covered sort of woman. The kind whose already dark skin is just that four shades darker from the thick, crisp layer of dirt that had formed there. Your hair feels heavy with sweat and grime and sticks to the side of your temples as you try to force yourself awake. There’s a sterile sort of smell that washes over you first when you wake up every morning, before the scent of your own filth gets under your nose. It’s somebody else’s hand sanitiser, but you’re sick of the smell. It reminds you of what being clean is like – and God, it’s been so fucking long since you’ve felt and been clean.

 

You’re almost thankful when you feel the sensation of a sponge going down your back – pushing against the bones of your spine which protruded slightly when you bent forward in the bath tub. Sometimes, you like to close your eyes and pretend this man is your husband, because he’s pretty nice to you, all things considered. When you forget that somebody is human, it’s easy to do all manner of things to them, because there is very little to forgive yourself for. Troy is kind though, and he has the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. Sometimes, he sits and reads books to you. Not all of them, interesting – but the way Troy speaks, he makes it interesting. He likes poetry.

 

He wants you to like it too, and sometimes, you do.

 

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright – you like that one. It’s vaguely familiar to you for some reason and that had always comforted you.

 

There’s a line that sticks in your mind, you’re not sure if it’s the words, or how Troy had read it to you – but it stuck the image of powerful metalworks, iron and steel.

 

_What the hammer? What the chain?_

You like the point of the poem too, it always made you ask questions of the darkness that would never get answered, but felt immense to ponder, to try to make sense of The Collapse. It makes you ask a lot of things, like, how can a tiger be so immensely beautiful when you see its propensity for savagery as it tears into a gazelle? It is horrific in how it mercilessly tears in. Its threshold for violence makes it a dark creature by its very nature, and what God could make such a terrifying beast, and what does it tell of the nature of God that he would put such a thing there? What does it mean to live in a world of both great beauty, and great horror? You wondered what God could make the dead come back like this, what did it mean to live in a world where beauty was scaled down to give way for horror, and when kindness was no longer something we could freely afford to give? A twisted Lazarus, maybe. Maybe it was more the Devil than God. You didn't even know if you could believe in such lofty ideas anymore. A lot of the things Troy read you were tales of Man's hubris and desire to understand God and attain a greatness and knowledge that surpassed humanity and suffering greatly for it.

 

Maybe this wasn't God or the Devil. Maybe it was just us. Man's hubris.

 

Flying too close to the sun.

 

God, you thought - you were left alone with your own mind far too often and Troy's habitual feeding of your book habit didn't help you, what good did it do to dwell on things out of your control? Troy might be the only nice person left in this miserable shithole of a country. Payton had often told you that there was nobody else left but those here in Alpha Centauri. For years upon years, any venture to the outside greeted you with lines upon lines of the dead ones. You didn’t have a name for them, just insults. Dead Ones. Stinkers. Shamblers. You rather liked calling them shamblers. Very few of the undead actually ran anymore, and the putrification process just seemed to get more and more disgusting as time went on.

 

You can’t pinpoint when the world ended for everybody else, but you can pinpoint when it ended for you.

 

Because once upon a time, a little girl left the duty-free section of Virginia International Airport, blindly searching for the bathroom, and simply never finding it.

 

And then she never came back.

 

It was about that simple for you. Your days had turned from recognisable day and night patterns to when Payton was there, and then when Payton wasn't there. It had been like that for a very long time, you remembered. You had been little - so little, twelve, perhaps? Or was it eleven? So much time had flown past you that it was so hard to keep track of and even harder to find people who still did. Payton was a tall, gangly, skinny man with a pale disposition and the most haunting pair of grey eyes that you had ever seen. You didn't even know people could have grey eyes without colour contacts, but Payton did. Everything about him was purely impossible. The amount of control he had, how sure he was of absolutely everything - and how he could see everything about you, even things you wanted to bury far, and deep. Payton - or Pariah - as his people knew him, was an incredibly strange being, and when he gazed at you with those eyes of his, you could be certain he could see all of the sins hanging over your head, just as surely as God can.

 

With the waves and waves of shamblers, the years of occasionally moving Alpha Centauri as a whole and still never seeing a living soul outside of the group had made it so easy to swallow Payton's truth. The truth that there were no living people outside of Alpha Centauri, and the group on the whole simply got smaller, and smaller, and smaller. Always. Despite the best and collective efforts of Payton and his people, the numbers always got smaller.

 

That's why you're 13.

 

There were people before you, and you knew some of them. Twelve had been especially lovely. Red hair to die for, the most verdant pair of blue irises - dimply smile. God. She'd been so pretty. So kind. You remembered how small her hands had been because she compared them to yours and made you think that yours were long, ugly and spider-like, while she had been more delicate.

 

But kindness got you killed here, in this new world, in this dogshit country. You're alive and Twelve isn't. Fact.

 

It's not like your life in Alpha Centauri was all bad though. You had served your time. When you were a little girl, most of your days had begun and ended in The Dark Room, and at some point, the world must have finally caught up with you, and ended for everybody else, because one day, you were put in the back of a van, and that had been that. You watched a slow influx of people come in and out, you never knew the numbers who came before Twelve, but you'd always heard about them. You heard about how pretty they were. How soft they were. How nice their breasts were. How tight their pussies were. How much better than you they'd been. All the goals you had to aspire to.

 

_Each number has to be better than the last._

 

That is what Payton had said, and God, did you have to try to be better than the rest. Better. Stronger. Resilient. Unbroken. 

 

If you couldn't be pretty, you had to be strong and there was no two ways about that fact. That's why you're the longest running number. You'd been Thirteen for a very, very, long time. You're certain that Payton isn't a big fan of Troy either, but if Troy wasn't his own flesh and blood, then perhaps Troy would be dead too. 

 

Troy was quick to get you dressed when he finished washing you - the choice of outfit today was a small bra that made your chest hurt when you breathed, and a long cream tank-top, and some muddy shorts that the ends of the shirt almost reached all the way down to. It was either too large, or you were too small. Maybe both. It made the shirt look like a dress, and gave the illusion that you had very little protecting your thighs, like you'd raided the closet of somebody much larger and more fully formed than yourself. You remembered glancing down at yourself and seeing the black bra push up against the white material and frowning at how unseemly you thought it was.

 

Twelve had nice clothes, but you never got nice clothes. Still, Troy is smiling, because they're clean, and they're new - and it's the best that he can do for you without Payton complaining about undeserved privilege. Troy's hands are soft and delicate when he pulls the straps up over your arms, and you're finally clean all over. You're going to move again - you know it. It's apparently dangerous for Alpha Centauri to stay in a place longer than a year - there's too many congregations of dead people that rock up to the camp and they have patience that is damn near immortal. When they know there are living humans holed up somewhere - short of a major distraction - they're content to push at your walls for decades until thinned out.

 

Simply put, Alpha Centauri had not the ammunition to deal with it, and the world is a fucking minefield these days.

 

In truth, you didn't understand why, but Payton very rarely deigned you with that sort of information - it was usually something you got off of Troy.

 

"Come on Sweetling," Troy said, his voice was soft, and smooth as he bundled you up in his arms, wrapping a towel around your shoulders so that your long, dark hair could drip onto it.

 

"We have to move, okay? It's not safe anymore,"

 

It's never safe, you thought scornfully - before being bundled up into a van, as was the yearly pattern.

 

You could never have predicted the rest.

 

You're sat in the back of the van, where the cargo is - and there isn't much of it. Payton is sat across from a man called DiMarco, whose driving silently. DiMarco is a strange sort of guy - he played with model trains and things and you remember telling him that you grew out of that when you were a baby. He'd been terribly offended, and didn't speak to you much after that, but he wasn't a horrible man - even if he argued with Troy sometimes. He's just a weird sort of guy - but he's not bad, just a bit....  different. That's fine, you supposed. You were different too. You knew you were different, because there were people in other vehicles that would be following you and you were vaguely aware that their lives were very different to yours. They put themselves in danger every single day it seemed, trying to find resources among the shamblers. They had control though. They got to pick their own clothes, their own schedules, their own food - and they could talk to whoever they wanted about whatever they wanted, you were certain. You envied it, but you knew it was to keep you safe. Payton had only ever wanted to keep you safe.

 

_It's for your own good, Sweetling._

 

That's why when Troy suddenly clapped a hand over your mouth, you felt a cold tremor of terror sweep through the bones of your small frame as the van came skidding to an absolute halt, and Payton begin to swear rather violently. 

 

He wasn't a man who swore often, so when he did, you knew it was a Very Bad Thing, and Troy can feel the fear reverberating through your body when he does it. Payton angrily opened the passenger side door of the truck, his trainers hitting the ground with a loud thud, he even slams the door with enough force that it feels like the truck is vibrating afterwards. It makes you flinch in the boy's arms, and it makes him squeeze you tighter for just a moment.

 

" _Whatever happens, don't make a sound_ ," Troy had breathed, and then - he let you go, following his father out of the truck.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You feel like you're in the truck for hours, pressing your ear to the walls and trying to hear what's going on outside. Did a bunch of shamblers get on the underside of the truck again? That's the only time you'd ever known the group to come to a halt mid-move, it was a necessary sort of evil in order to stop the vehicle from turning over. It was good to mow them down, but sometimes, shamblers would get caught underneath and it could really mess everything up, sometimes you'd even help clear them, but this seemed a lot more dire and urgent than that, because Troy wouldn't act like that if it wasn't. You tried peeking up from behind the driver and passenger seat to the windshield ahead, but there's nothing in front but trees and brush. They must have veered off to the left or to the right, far enough that you can't see, and all you can hear are muffled voices.

 

You probably weren't in there for hours, but it did feel like it.

 

There is an idea, you think - of disobeying orders. You're not one to do it often, because it was met with swift justice and you were not one to make your own life any more difficult than it had to be. There's something not right though, and that's the one authority that you have come to trust over these long, arduous years. Your gut. Always trust your gut. Trust it over everything else. The truth of the matter is this - your gut is the better part of your mind, the kind that can recognise the patterns that you can't quite make sense of sew together logically, but you know are there. It's what tells you when something isn't quite right. It is the gift of fear and survival. It is the gift of a bad feeling. It is the gift of a hunch, and never once has it steered you wrong.

 

Plus, it's not Payton who'd told you stay quiet, it had been Troy. Payton just sort of expected it from you, but an order from Troy was always easier to disobey because Troy was kind when Payton simply wasn't. Disobeying Troy is an easier burden to bare as opposed to disappointing his father, but it always hurt you more, because you wanted Troy to like you. How stupid is that? The world burns and ends around you, your days consist of constantly trying to be better than women you've never even met, and yet, all you want is for Troy to like you. It's a bit pathetic, really. That you want to drop your head into the lap of the first boy whose nice to you. Sickening.

 

_Stupid girl._

 

Your fingers are resting against the cool truck walls as you strain to hear anything, and when it's silent, you knock against the metal hesitantly, cringing at how much louder than intended it was. It was like somebody rattling a big sheet of paper to make cheesy thunder effects for those old films that Payton likes. 

 

You ask, in a tiny mousy voice, uncertain if anybody can hear you, in fact - you don't even think it left the truck.

 

_"Can I come out now?"_

 

Punishment is better than being left alone, you think. The noise attracts attention though, and you hear some more cursing, but the voices are unfamiliar. That cold tremor of terror washes over you again, and you begin to think that perhaps you should have listened to Troy when he said not to make a sound, even if it meant being quiet all day and all night. You gripped the end of your shirt tightly, fingers knotting into the material as you scooted as far back as you could. You wondered if you should climb into the seats at the front and try to hide under the dashboard, but what if somebody comes in through there, or sees you through the windows? There's nowhere to run, and being quiet had been your only option, but it had been so long that you'd started getting worried, only now? You were scared shitless, and desperately trying to push yourself into the topmost corner of the left side of the cargo space, trying to make yourself as tiny as possible.  As if it'd do a lick of fucking good.

 

You felt the ray of warmth hit your skin first as you tucked your head into your knees and knew it was the sensation of the Virginia sun rays hitting you, because the sound of the back doors opening filled your ears with a large metallic groan that came exclusively from the near rusted hinges. You can feel your long, freshly washed, dark hair spill over your arms and onto some of your bare legs as you attempt to make yourself as pitiable as possible, in generally made them softer with you when you did that. Your voice is hoarse, and you still haven't quite lost the English accent, but it's terribly strained with your soft, delicate, crackling tones.

 

 _"I'll be quiet - I'll be quiet,"_ you strain out apologetically, but it's not Payton's baritone that hits you.

 

Instead, it's a long, playful whistle, followed by an unfamiliar, equally loud, male voice that had an oddly playful lilt to its deep tones, while you clench at fistfuls of your shirt, curled in that small, defensive ball.

 

"Looks like you assholes were holdin' out on us!" he chortled "-what _do_ we have here?" he drags out the word 'do' quite playfully, and it's enough to make you look up in raw bewilderment. It's not any male voice you recognise, the lilt is strange, and the baritone is different, and even the accent is a whole lot thicker. You tried to lay eyes on the source, but the Virginia sun bleating into the truck momentarily blinds you, leaving you squinting and half-hidden behind long tresses of dark hair, pushing yourself forward onto all fours. You resembled more of an animal than a girl in that moment, your long, spidering hands deftly griping at the floor as the sun stunned your vision.

 

"Why don't you come and join the rest of your friends, hm? We're all going to have a lovely, friendly, fucking chat," though you knew from the hint of mock to the tone that you had no choice in the matter, you found yourself crawling on all fours until your fingers were curled around the edge of the truck, and you were staring out at the grassy ground at a pair of thick, tall, inch-high male boots. 

 

"You don't wanna miss out on all the fun, do you?" the mocking lilt tells you you're in danger, and you do your damn best not to piss yourself. You're scared. God, you're frightened - because everything is getting far beyond your limited understanding of the world, it's getting bigger and bigger and it hurts.

 

Instantly, you felt like your head was spinning - everything felt heavy and warped, like somebody had put all of your memories and understanding through a funhouse mirror and gave you nothing but distortion in return. The tremors of fear had left and given way to confusion, your heart had sunk all the way down into your chest. It was like there was a loud ringing in your ears - like someone was just going through every understanding you had of the new world with a serrated knife and slicing through each one, leaving disjointed ribbons in their wake. 

 

_These people aren't Alpha Centauri._

 

Your first thought is that they could be defectors, which would make sense. But you knew every face that had ever come and left the fold, every single one, and none of these voices were familiar to you. You blinked out the sun spots from your eyes and found your legs shaking as you swung them out of the truck. You don't even have proper shoes, it's quite shameful really. You're in a pair of slippers with little red stains on them that are unmistakably blood - those had been your shoes for a very long time, and you'd worn the sole through so easily that you could feel every blade of grass under the arch of your foot as though you were barefoot. Actually, it isn't even really fair to say you came out of the truck, so much as "fell out" - because the level of head-warping confusion you're feeling completely sweeps out your kneecaps, sending you sprawling to the floor on all fours again - like an animal.

 

"Jesus, what is this your fucking prisoner or something?" that same voice mocks, but there's something odd to the lilt as you shake from head to toe, like a dog that's just been pulled out of freezing cold water. "Seriously, what kind of sick shit is goin' on over here?"

 

He laughs again, but honestly, you're trying not to vomit all over his shoes.

 

"She's nobody, leave her alone," there it is. Payton's voice. You stop shaking for a moment and glance up finally, peering through your long, dark hair which gives you the blurred sight of a dark set of jeans, the glinting of what is surely a studded belt, and a leather jacket, a face shadowed by the sun. Your fingers curl in the grass and it's the man who tells you to get up, forcing you to stand on your warbling legs with just his words - walking you a little ways away from the truck. You can barely hear anything of the arguing as several more figures come into view. One of them is of a woman, but the rest are all men, and they have very large guns strapped to their backs. None of them are Alpha Centauri defectors.

 

They're definitely not shamblers, either.

 

The man who opened the truck is carrying a large, nasty looking baseball bat, coated in a thick layer of maroon-shining barbed wire over his left shoulder, it's enough to keep that sensation of terror beating through your bones under that thick layer of confusion. Your eyes flock first to the puddle of blood on the floor, connecting it to the large bat in the man's hand. He's built like a lineman too, terrifying and wide - a pure powerhouse of muscle, it's enough to make you submit instantly to the thick intensity of the man's atmosphere.

 

You really did nearly vomit, hands flying over your lips as you suppressed a scream when you laid eyes on the body on the ground, surrounded by the men who'd stopped the truck.

 

The figure is slumped over, you can't see the face - but you don't need to, because you recognise the jean jacket and the track pants instantly, because you'd felt them pressed against you not moments earlier, when Troy had told you to absolutely not make a sound, whatever happens.

 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

 

Troy's dead, and your stare is fixated on it, finally pulling away from all of the strangers to Troy's prone corpse before you found yourself standing in Payton's impossibly tall shadow.

 

_Troy's dead. Troy's dead. Troy's dead._

 

People die all the time, but fuck, this is  _Troy._

 

Your eyes are darting from Payton, to the four heavily armed figures, and then Troy, before your fingers get lost in the mass of your dark hair, you're throwing your head back and feeling the hot, bleating sun coating your freshly washed skin in a warm glow which is the only thing pulling you out of the mental toxic vat that your mind had become. It was almost too much to bare, you almost passed out, and you were still fighting the urge to do so. For the longest of time, you hadn't seen anybody who wasn't in your group, and Payton had fed you this idea that this was all that there was. That there was nothing and nobody else but Alpha Centau---and fuck, **Troy's dead!** Troy is fucking _dead._

 

People are saying things, their mouths are moving - but you can't hear a fucking thing, it just sounds like one loud, piercing screech pounding at your temples as your mind feels like it's splitting in two. You want to be sick, you're going to be sick, but you're audibly swallowing it down, and you're breathing heavily, feeling Payton reach for your arm but instinctively, you flinch away from it. He's saying something too - but you're backing away from him, your eyes kept in a wide-eyed sort of horror. It's backing you away from Troy's corpse, but it's also to get the  _fuck_ away from Payton.

 

" _Don't touch me!"_ your straining, crackling, hoarse voice manages to sound out as clear as day. It even breaks, and you're shaking as badly as you did when you first fell out of the truck. It's a strange turn of events for the people holding you up, because they'd just negotiated terms with Alpha Centauri, only for one of their own to snap and back away from the leader.

 

It all came down to Payton.

 

You want to trust him, but nothing makes sense. He's all you know, but now everything you know has been warped horribly.

 

"Don't be stupid, stop freaking out and get in the damn truck," Payton snaps, with zero sympathy - he'll have to cook up an explanation later - but there's an unforgivably betrayed look in your eyes, and when he looks at you, he can see confused tears sliding down your face before you turned away from him. It hits him just from your expression alone that the penny has dropped. The cat is out of the bag, and whatever explanation that Payton would manage to cook up once you're back in that truck, there was absolutely no putting the genie back in the bottle.

 

Payton had lied to you, pure and simple, and it was so big and egregious that it made you want to scream. Troy must have lied too, but he's dead, and you can't even begin to process and code whatever the fuck you're feeling about the corpse near the man's feet. You're backing into the area with the guys with guns, but you don't care. It's clear from your face, you don't care.

 

"I'm not going with you! Anywhere! Ever! Again!" you're screaming now, and it's the first time in a long time you've ever shouted back at the man, and the instant terror of what you've done sets in, and it's purely fascinating to watch as a tangible anger begins to bleed on Payton's face. An impatience, even.

 

But the terror in your voice - it's so very real, terror, anger and confusion.

 

"You fucking liar! You lied to me! I'm not going anywhere with you!" you cried out, feeling the warmth racing down your face and that dizzying urge screaming at you to just pass out, because your tiny body could barely handle the stress and confusion of what's happening. 

 

"You know, I could be wrong here, but it sounds like she doesn't want to get in the fucking truck," said the man with the baseball bat sarcastically - he's about to leave, let you have whatever domestic dispute you want now that he has negotiation terms with Alpha Centauri, but damn if he isn't fucking intrigued by what the hell is happening. The accent got him first, then everything else.

 

"Stay out of this," Payton snaps, and wow, he has a shocking amount of disrespect for somebody both out-manned, and out-armoured.

 

"Get in the truck. Right now. Or so help me God," Payton hisses, his tone is low and dangerous, and usually that would strike the fear of God into you, but maybe Troy's bravery is keeping you standing upright, you're stumbling back so quickly that it's a wonder you don't trip over, and you'd much rather have your back turned to the men with guns than take your eyes off of Payton for even a second. "I will explain everything later. Just get. In. The. Truck. This is  _not_ a negotiation."

 

"No," you warbled out, swallowing down the sensation of abject fear as you held the man's stare for all of five seconds before you stared at the blood-speckled slippers on your feet.

 

"You know, for a guy out-manned and out-gunned, you sure do run your fucking mouth, I just shot your fucking son," snorted the man with the bat again, shaking his head. "-Clearly, your priorities aren't in order, and I don't blame the little lady for not wanting to hop in a truck with your crazy ass. Why don't you shut up for a hot second, while I find out what the fuckity fuck is goin' on here? Ya'll got me curious," he hummed, looking at how close you were now you'd stumbled away from Payton. You were about five steps away from Dwight, and you wouldn't stop staring at Payton warily, like he was a tiger that might strike. Even though it meant putting your back to his men and his guns.

 

He couldn't decide if it was bravery, or pure stupidity.

 

There's the bad decision, and the worse decision, but that's all there is. That's all there ever has been. But still, there is something disgustingly innocent when you glance over at the Saviors, and stood too dumb to be afraid, because you certainly didn't think it was bravery leading you stand in front of all of those guns. There's the devil you know, and the devil you don't. When the Saviors look at you - properly, in the sun, they can see you for what you are. There's a sort of tired, almost sunken look to your eyes, because the faint crease of a ring is highlighted against your dark skin under the sunlight. It's a tired sort of look, mixed with one of faint undernourishment, perhaps - because your face is a little thin. It looks like you might not have pants on, but they can't tell - because the shirt is really, disgustingly long, and the black bra shows up against it, revealing that you are, in fact, a grown-up woman, despite how incredibly small and almost deer-like you seemed.

 

Yes, that was perhaps the most striking thing about you, how wide and expressive your eyes were - they were big, doe-like, utterly betrayed, giving you a babe-in-the-woods sort of look, your knees were scraped, and your long, dark hair stuck in stray strands to where tear tracks glistened under the light. Your lips are full, and lovely, but incredibly dry, and cracked, and there's an almost sickly nature about it but it just shows you haven't been given water in a while, or otherwise taken care of. It's what makes the man assume you were a prisoner of Alpha Centauri, but you are, in fact, one of their more important members.

 

Payton is silenced by the guns aimed at him, and you force your stare to all of the men - and the woman. The woman looked Latina, short haired, fierce seeming - she seemed to be scowling at Payton, and the most visibly displeased by the dispute that had unfolded.  The way the man gazes down at you, his massive shadow and barrel-chested form baring down on you not only dwarfed you, but killed your warbling voice straight in the base of your throat.

 

"What's your name, pretty girl?" there's that odd lilt in his voice, and you're looking for the mockery - and fuck, your immediate response causes somebody snort, because instinctively, you turned your head away from him to glance behind you, like he was referring to some other mysterious girl, because you didn't think you were a pretty girl. Number Twelve was the pretty girl, and it shows when your shaking finger gestures at your chest shyly when he says that - you're still trying not to vomit or piss yourself, but it seems this man scares even Payton, and if you stood next to The Big Baseball Bat Man - then Payton wouldn't hurt you. Yet. 

 

Your lip warbles, like your scared of speaking, and you kind of are - because in truth, you haven't thought about this far. You didn't even think about when you snapped at Payton. You didn't know where you'd go, or what you'd do, and leaving meant assured death either way, but the betrayal and the lies and Troy being fucking dead had made it all free game to you. You didn't  _have_ to go with Payton anywhere anymore. There's no Troy to keep you safe now, so if you go back to the new base with him, you might as well kill yourself, and make room for number 14 to come along.

 

And hey, you thought darkly, at least you set the bar for 14 so low that she wouldn't possibly have to live in your shadow. At least, you won't leave misery behind. Your exit from this world can be clean, and free. 

 

Two things you'd always wished you were. Clean and free.

 

"T...Thirteen," you mumble in your throaty rasp, and he leans down, crouching slightly because he's an incredible 6"2 and you're 5"3 but only if you round up.

 

"I didn't quite catch that," he says, and there's almost that hint of mockery - you're staring at his face. It's a grizzled, handsome sort of face, probably. Under all that fuzz, maybe. It's definitely not an Alpha Centauri defector, you're completely and utterly sure. Payton had lied to you. Maybe the man did hear you too and thought he misheard - you can't tell if he's meaning to sound mocking, or if it's just how he sounds, but that tunnelling, black stare is somehow even more piercing than Payton's, but it doesn't make you feel shameful and naked when he looks at you, just intimidated.

 

You move your hand up into your hair, wanting to be sure he didn't mishear you or not hear you again, because your'e so frightened you can barely lift your tongue as it is. He watches as you brush your long hair to one side of your body so it's cascading down the left side of your torso softly. He glanced at the bit of neck you exposed as you cricked your neck to one side, leaning into your left shoulder and moving the finger which had once pointed at your body shyly up to your own neck. His eyes settled on deep, once-blistered, angry flesh. It still looked sore, and red, even though the mark was quite old, as it had scarred. It looked like a scar that had been filled with red, and it was certainly no tattoo - because he could tell just from looking that your skin he can tell it's indented - it's been carved up, if he puts his fingers on it, he'll feel it pressing deeply into your flesh. It's branding. Scarification. Something done with a hot knife probably - complete butcher work, and it is almost painful to look at. It's a number, and it coincides with your shy, shaking voice.

 

"My name is Thirteen."

 

He looks at you oddly, and then glances at Payton, who doesn't react to it, then looks back at you, frowning.

 

 "The fuck? I highly doubt your mom squeezed you out with that name, what the fuck kind of name is Thirteen, anyway?" he'd chuckled at you, but you just shrugged. You'd been called Thirteen for a really long time now, and you couldn't remember much of your old name, you tried not to, to be honest, everything from the time before the Collapse, before the world ended for you, was something kept behind the opaque glass of your mind, shielding your memories, because thinking about that kind of stuff - it just....hurt. It hurt to remember what you lost, and being Thirteen is easier than dealing with all of that other stuff.

 

 

"Well, Thirteen," there is a definite mockery to his voice as he uses the name, but there's a look you can't quite figure out on his face as he keeps looking down at you with that piercing stare. "-Would you like to go with that asshole over there?" he gestured to Payton.

 

"They'll kill you," Payton blurts - but you don't look at him, his voice just makes you draw your shoulders up to your ears and you stare at your feet again. You're so quiet only the big man in front of you can hear you, but it's the guy in the scenario who matters the most, anyway.

 

 _"That's fine,"_ yes, your voice actually  _cracks -_ and while the Saviors aren't the most feeling sort - they're freaks, really, it seems to strike a chord in the right place, at least with the one in front of you, and that's what matters. " _-I d-I d--don't w-want to go home with you anymore anyway."_

 

"Well!" the man leans on his back foot and claps once, loudly, making you flinch noticeably and recoil on reflex. "That settles it, we're taking on a little insurance, just to make sure you hold up your end of the deal, of course. Seems like it'll work for everyone, don't it?" The man smiles a toothy, devilish sort of smile, and Payton's ready to spit acid, but is forced at gunpoint to march back into his truck. "Looks like we're taking a stray," he turns back to you, and he smiles a deceptively warm smile. Fuck. It looks like you aren't blindly walking away from this either, into the shambler abyss - your choice is the devil you know - Payton, or the devil you don't - who killed Troy.

 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

 

"My name is Negan," said the man genially, before pointing with that garish bat of his "-this is Lucille - and those guys over there, are my Saviors, and we're gonna take you home with us," he gives you a dangerous sort of look, but it doesn't phase you, you're already at the apex of terror to a point where you don't actually feel anything anymore and are just standing there dumbly.

 

"Is that going to be a fucking problem?"

 

You shake your head - they have guns. They killed Troy. They frightened Payton. You have no options outside of Payton. This is the only choice you have.

 

"Smart girl," he praised, smiling at you gently. You knew better than to trust smiles like that, so you didn't. You remained alert, like a cat with its hackles up and it showed, your knees practically knocked with every trembling step that you did and in truth, you looked both pitiable and pathetic, but Negan was not a man completely without sympathy, and he was, quite simply - intrigued. You go with them quietly, but you hardly blink - you're staring at them with that fearful, apprehensive, doe-eyed but curious stare, because these are the first people you've seen outside of Alpha Centauri that aren't shamblers, it's hard  _not_ to look, and it distracts you from having to process what happened just now with Troy and Payton.

 

There's a blond and a brunet man in the much bigger, and physically armoured truck that these "Saviors" had stopped your group with. The blond and brunet both have rather crinkled, damaged skin - burns, you realised, the blond's were much more egregious, having gone around one eye, but the brunet's - they were more in his hair than around his eye. They're ugly burns all the same, and you have to wonder if their skin still feels things when they touch them, but you're nowhere brave enough or rude enough to ask, so you just stare, before moving onto the Latina - whose hair would be like yours, except it was a boy-cut and almost gelled down, much like the Baseball Bat Man - whom you'd come to know as Negan.

 

Your terror is still palpable, and you're made to sit down at the feet of the Latina and the brunet man, your hands are shaking in your lap too - but you're just looking blankly at the van floor.

 

There was only one way any of your choices were going to end. Trying to live in this world was a fool's game anyway.

 

"Oh for fuck's sake Dwight, put the gun down, the little bird's scared shitless as it is," it's the Latina who speaks, and that's how you learn the blond man is called Dwight - and he's the one with the gun trained on you. It's true, everybody here is much bigger than you, more well-fed, could probably take you down, and were armed to the teeth, you didn't even have so much as a knife.

 

"Such a soft touch Laura," Dwight mocks, rolling his eyes, but he acquiesces anyway.

 

You don't react - you're actually frighteningly still, save for the shaking of your hands, for most of the trip. You're deadly silent for about an hour, tuning out the mindless chatter because it didn't seem very important, you were trying to calculate how many hours you had to live, and what this Mr Negan was going to be like. He could be like Payton - he could even be worse, you mused, and if that was the case, you needed an out-plan.

 

Luckily, death is relatively easy to come by, so you don't stress on the idea for too long, and strangely, the fact you can opt out at any time gives you a queer sense of comfort.

 

"So," it's Negan who speaks, effectively silencing the entire truck as his severe stare bore down on you again, much like the bleat of the Virginia sun in its intensity.  "Thirteen," there's that mockery again in his tone, he watched as you glanced up through your hair, again, with that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look.

 

You're probably shitting yourself, Negan muses - and rightly so, you should, but he wants to know what makes you risk it for strangers and flush your life away in one second as opposed to head off with the guy from Alpha Centauri. It must take something purely utterly terrifying for you to risk going with the guys with guns who just killed one of your own, rather than try to leave with Payton. 

 

"Why didn't you want to get back in the truck?" his lips twitch at your obviously confused look "-ya'll got me curious, remember?"

 

You shrug, and from the looks of his inner circle, that's apparently the wrong thing to do.

 

"It's a bad idea to fuck me about, so when I ask you something, I need you to answer, okay?" his tone is still deceptively gentle, but there's a steeliness underlining his words that makes you flinch - that's more like the kind of treatment you're familiar with, and in a sick sort of way, you actually welcome it.

 

Still, you're silent for an awkward amount of time before you answer, staring blankly at the mans ankles as you remained sat awkwardly on the floor.

 

"He lied," you said quietly, frowning to yourself because in truth, you're wondering if you made the right call when you'd freaked out on the man. Payton was all you knew. For a long time, Payton and Troy had been your whole fucking world, and the turmoil this left you in was so overwhelming, you found yourself dizzied again.

 

"He said everybody was dead, but they're not dead, because you're not dead. He said Alpha Centauri was all there was," you frown, and honestly, it sounds more like you're talking to yourself than to Negan, because the cogs are turning behind your shattered eyes like he can almost see you going through your memories in abject confusion. "He wanted me to die there, I think. So he could get a better girl, and make her Fourteen. No point going with Payton if I'm going to die anyway,"

 

You're frighteningly clinical sounding, even with your warbles and cracks, you talk of your own death casually just as you had when you'd uttered it'd be "fine" if the Saviors shot you. It was queer and fucking morbid, but utterly fascinating and he still felt like he had no idea what the fuck you were talking about, and with you mostly focused on his ankles, you missed the expression on his face.

 

"That's a pretty big fucking lie, pretty girl. There's not a huge fuckin' amount of people, but shit, there's people. A shitton of us -  _whole communities -_ what, you didn't really believe that asshole, right?" he scoffed at the idea, and it made you feel stupid when he did, your ears burned, but you nodded anyway. "You bumbling idiots weren't the only people to survive this shitshow, Jesus Christ, thank fuck for that or humanity really is screwed!" 

 

Your eyes are impossibly wide - your brain hurts at the idea of whole communities, and so you're holding your head - and that dizzying sickness finally overcomes you. It's all a bit too much, and finally - finally, you feel the world black out behind your eyes, and the cool sensation of the truck floor under your body.

 

You passed out, body unable to take anymore world-altering for one day.

 

 

 

 


	2. Perfect Girl

 

The first thing the elderly doctor notices about the patient that’s brought in is that she is clearly undernourished. Most people in this day and age are, but it takes a special sort of effort to be this kind of undernourished, where it shows in the face. It’s odd that you’re being carried, but you’re unconscious, and you barely weigh a thing to Dwight, who sets you down on the operation station. The second thing the good doctor notices, besides the egregious number-shaped lacerations on your neck, is the fact that you’re almost doll-like in how he can move you, fully opposable, like your body would give none of the resistance it usually should.

 

You’re like this for a full day and a half, and when you wake up, it’s no surprise when you start crying. Getting captured by the Saviors is the worst card that you can possibly draw and he’s sympathetic to that. They’re a dangerous, odd and cult-like type of group and the Sanctuary is a wholly unwelcoming place to anybody out of the fold. He asks your name, but you don’t talk – you’re crying a fair amount, until soft, bruise-like discolouration forms under your large, innocent eyes. Your eyes are puffy, and you tremble enough that the doctor even feels kind of bad for having to touch and bend you, raising your disgustingly overlong shirt to give you a physical. You don’t resist though, and that’s actually the most unsettling part. You’re astoundingly upset, but you don’t resist the ministrations at all.

 

“Can you tell me if you’ve had any surgical procedures done in the past four years – since the Collapse?” his tone is soft and gentle, he has a clipboard in his hand, and he’s trying to account for some of the things he’s found on your torso. You look at him blankly, wiping your eyes delicately on the back of your hand and sniffling back the wedge of snot in the base of your nose audibly.

 

You keep waiting for Troy to come in and bundle you up and take you away, but it’s never going to happen, and you know it.

 

“I don’t know,” you shudder out, and he frowns at you – because how can you not know the answer to that question?

 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” said the man, still soft. “I’m a doctor, and my name is Carson. I’m just giving you a physical, alright? I’m just trying to account for some things,” he bends down even though it’s hell on his knees, so he can be eye to eye with you. You have to be in your 20s, if he guessed, but you’re so short that your feet don’t touch the floor when you’re sat on his operating table.

 

“I don’t know,” you repeat, brows drawn into a frown. You’re looking around trying to take everything in, like a small child being thrust into a new place. You haven’t seen a place with this many professional looking things before, and it’s obviously very upscale.

 

“Okay,” he acquiesces, slowly rising to full height and grimacing at the strain on his knees. Dr Carson is nothing but gentlemanly in his touches, his hands don’t go anywhere that they shouldn’t without reason, but it’s a very odd sensation all the same. A voice makes you almost jump out of your skin, because you don’t detect the presence until he speaks.

 

“I’ll go tell the boss she’s awake,” the blond from earlier, Dwight – exits the doorway when Dr Carson is moving to your neck and documenting a fading purple bruise around your collar. You’re quiet for a long time as Carson moves around your body, scribbling away in his clipboard.

 

The quiet is peaceful, and you’re now fully woken up to the fact that Troy isn’t going to pop out of the woodwork to save you. It’s a scary sort of thought, but you’re all alone now, and you hadn’t been all alone in a very long time. There’d always been somebody – maybe you should have stayed with Payton? If you’d have stayed with Payton, you’d have understood what was happening, because everything as of this moment was dangerously unpredictable. So far, nothing untoward had happened to you, but the kindness was throwing you for a loop. At the end of the operating desk were a small pile of clothes on a chair, roughly estimated to be your size, shoes included. You’re not sure where yours were, and frowned at your own bare feet.

 

“It was a real Cinderella case trying to find shoes to fit you,” Dr Carson chuckled, bringing the small pile of clothes over. You took them onto your lap and gave him a very confused sort of look – why were they giving you clothes? You don’t remember doing anything that warranted new clothes, unless the clothes meant that they expected something of you, which was a very real possibility. Nothing is free in this new world, but that was the same in the old one too. Everything is earned, nothing is given, all of it is privilege, not a right.

 

“Are these really for me?” you finger the material gingerly with such a hesitance that it makes Dr Carson stop for a moment, but a different voice answers.

 

“Yeah, unless you wanna stay in your rags, you’re fucking drowning in that thing,” it’s that crude, lilting, masculine voice again – the boss whom you supposed that the blond one had summoned. You’re still staring at the clothes though, marvelling at how crisp, soft and fresh they felt between your fingers. In your hand is a deep blue sports jersey with short sleeves, there’s a name emblazoned on it, and, quite fittingly, your number, which your certain might have been on purpose. It makes you smile though, because it shows it had been picked with purpose. You’re not sure how they would have gotten your shoe size right, unless they kept trying them against your unconscious body, which from Carson’s words, might have been the case. You surprise the pair by not waiting for anybody to turn their back or leave the room, and simply pull the long shirt up over your head, revealing the frailness of your form as you do. The thing that surprises you is that you’re just in underwear from the legs down, and that Dr Carson or maybe some assistants had to take off your shorts so you could have the physical. Still, there’s no sense of shame, or modesty – you’re practically feral in that sense, and it shows.

 

The first thing that Negan sees is the long, sprawling purple of your skin around the left side of your collarbone. It’s in large, ugly splotches and it is a nasty case of subdermal hematoma to show up against your darkened skin-tone, but it does, and it’s especially egregious under the light. There’s a mark on your thigh too, but it’s red and smaller – fading. From this angle, he can’t see your back, but he can see where your skin has stretched from losing weight too quickly around your lower stomach, showing animalistic stretchmarks that clawed down the left and right of your bellybutton, which showed up as clear white lines against your tanned flesh. There’s a deep, surgical looking scar that disappears into your underwear too, but his eyes don’t linger there for very long. You have a decent sort of chest, proportional to your body, anyway, he could probably grope half of both breasts you with just one large hand because you’re really a tiny creature overall.

 

The blue jersey falls over your skin and shields the sight, but your lack of modesty shows him that you don’t appear to care much. His eyes drag to the sight of the jersey sloping down your left shoulder while you pull your long, dark hair out of the collar so it sprawls down your back. It’s still a little bit big on you, but it doesn’t look like a dress on you at least, it just hangs off your chest like a small tent. There’s a new pair of grey shorts too, but they’re elasticated, and look like something you’d work out in, because they struggled to find something that’d fit you, but you slide into them, not really caring for Negan’s unblinking stare while you fiddled with the little drawstring to tighten the elasticity around your hips. He watches you slide your tiny little feet into the shoes that had to be rustled up – Laura had been charged with the duty of finding you clothes and it had apparently been in a pain in her ass and a task she considered slightly beneath her station, but she seemed to be soft enough that she didn’t complain too much. All she’d managed to find were a pair of flat-heeled dolly shoes to fit you, but it was good enough – better than slippers, anyway.

 

“Thank you,” your tone is gentle and apprehensive, and you look at him through your eyelashes like he might suddenly tear strips into you. Instead, Negan smiles rather genially at you, showing that deceptive kindness as he looks you up and down.

 

“You’re very welcome little lady,” he said smoothly, rising to his feet. He doesn’t need to see Carson’s report, he’s seen enough with his own two eyes, but he’ll probably request it later, just to assuage his curiosity. “You were asleep for a while; do you remember passing out?”.

 

“I think so,” you remembered his threat about not answering his questions, so you vowed to try very hard to do so, you don’t want to make your life hard here and give them a reason to hurt you – did you?

 

“Had us worried for a moment,” he said idly – though you very much doubted they actually were, they were probably worried you might die and turn in the truck, maybe, but not worried about you.

 

“How’s she been, doc?” he asked, turning to Dr Carson instead.

 

“She’s been the perfect patient,” said Dr Carson, but he’s frowning as he says it, and makes a head gesture to go outside and walks towards the door, but not before turning to you, and telling you that they’ll just be a few moments, there’s just a few things he needs to talk about.

 

Negan gets up with a raised brow, but he likes Dr Carson and actually trusts his judgement, so if this is an outside sort of talk, he follows. The elderly doctor shuts the door behind them, leaving you to sit on the operating desk numbly.

 

Carson must be careful here, of what he asks. He cannot under any circumstance, go and offend Negan, but there’s too many gaps in his medical report that you’re unwilling or unable to fill in, and so he needs to know how much of this is due to Savior manhandling, and what isn’t.

 

“Can I ask where you found this one?” he said, brows drawn. If it’s not his business, Negan will tell him so, and that will be that. Surprisingly, however, the man answers him and is much more forthcoming with what Dr Carson asks, because he wagers that the man wouldn’t ask without reason, and there’s no denying it – Number 13 is a very odd little creature.

 

“She’s Alpha Centauri,” he said shortly “-and now you know about as much as we fucking do,”.

 

Dr Carson clears his throat awkwardly, and he doesn’t know much about the group but mumbles and whispers, because they move around with the aim of not being ransacked by The New Frontier or the Saviors, or any other marauding group.

 

“Is there a problem?” Negan cuts straight to the chase, and Carson gestures to his own neck – and is blunt when he asks.

 

“Was she manhandled by the boys much? There’s an obscene amount of subcutaneous bruising around her neck and it’s remarkably fresh. There’s a…concerning amount of things I can’t seem to account for, and until she talks, I’m trying to fill in the gaps, so I can treat her properly,” he adds hurriedly.

 

Usually, this notion would offend the man a little, but it’s a fair question, because he picked his Saviors to be the worst of the worst – the most brutal of the bunch, and Thirteen is a delicate looking little thing, but just the scowl that flits on his face tells Carson the answer is no.

 

“She came in fucked up, just do what you can,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “Didn’t lay a finger on her, Dwight carried her in, but that’s the fucking end of it,”

 

“When you say concerning,” he leaned in, and drowned the man in his intimidating atmosphere. “Expand on that.” He’s curious, again.

 

“I don’t want to make assumptions,” he said “-there’s only so much I can tell from a physical until she talks. I can tell you the butchery done on her neck is branding though, a hot knife if I had to guess, not much in the way of ink, like how you’d brand a cow. It’s old, too. I can’t really say anybody would want to do that to themselves willingly. These Alpha Centauri people must be animals,” he wrinkles his nose in distaste, and Carson isn’t a massive fan of how the Saviors function and on some level, Negan knows this, so if Carson is calling them animals, then he must really think that they are.

 

“There’s more bruising on her left thigh, light scarring around the wrists, which suggests time in captivity, more around the ankles. She’s undernourished, clearly – and needs water, food and sleep. She’s dropped a staggering amount of weight in a short amount of time judging from the amount of stretching of her skin,” he had his own suspicions, but he kept them to himself. “The fact she insists she’s unable or doesn’t want to answer any questions at first suggested retrograde amnesia, but I feel like it’s a little more sinister than that.”

 

Sinister, now that was a curious choice of words.

 

“Sinister,” Negan sounded out, and the man sighs, struggling to find a way to articulate this in a way that might make sense to the terrifying leader of the Saviors. “Sinister how?”

 

“Sinister enough that I think she has zero desire to recount her time with these Alpha Centauri people. We often block things or bury them deeply inside of us if we cannot consciously process what’s happening around us, and to us. I can’t put her anywhere older than twenty or twenty-one, so if she’s been with these people since the beginning of the Collapse, then as a child, it would make sense she adopts to however these people function, and doesn’t know anything outside of that.”

 

Huh, that makes sense to Negan, anyway. The doctor is an incredibly smart man, because he wouldn't have thought to have put together a mental timeline and reasoning your feral behaviour for what it was - long-term mental conditioning. It was easy to forget in the midst of his cult-like worship and the early empire he had made out of the Sanctuary that not everybody had gotten through the apocalypse with all of their marbles intact. Sure, he'd seen what the wasteland had done to people, it made survivors out of the strong and meat out of the weak, but most communities he'd seen tried to emulate what life was like before the Collapse. Alpha Centauri on the other hand, was just a different beast entirely, it sounded very different to any sort of society he had his Saviors dealing with. The Alexandrians don't brand, neither do Hilltop, even that pathetic play-pretend Kingdom which cast itself to feudal era living and made it _work -_ the closest he could gather to Alpha Centauri's method of function was perhaps The New Frontier operating out of New Richmond. He'd yet to get the resources and manpower to spread out that far and deal with that group, but even so, Alpha Centauri differentiated itself by restationing their base of operations. They had no desire to cement their community, from what little he could gather, they were nomadic in nature, and it protected them from marauding bands of communities that would seek to pillage them dry. They moved, and they hid - like roaches, he mused.

 

"So, she's feral," he said flatly, and Carson grimaces at the choice of wording.

 

"In a sense," he's hesitant to agree because he doesn't want you to be treated poorly by the nature of what you are, so he's in a rush to quickly implant a professional opinion into the fray and hope that it's what Negan will go with, because ultimately, the man will do as he pleases. "Considering that, and she's clearly not much of a threat to anybody, I would advise she's just kept in holding, given food, a bed. I'm assuming she's a hostage, is she?" - he knows he's overstepping his bounds, but to a man as old as Carson is, you seem like absolutely a little girl to him. He has to admit, he's rather taken by your demeanour, and your fragile presence - having you here, in the Sanctuary was like throwing the lamb into the lion's den and he knows it. All Dr Carson is trying to do is protect you from that because he can see you for exactly what you are, and Negan can admire that about him, he's a good man - it's something that Negan himself, never was.

 

"Yes and no, she didn't want to go to Alpha Centauri and we have her for insurance, so everybody wins," he replied casually "-she came willingly. Mostly."

 

It was a good deal too, because it meant Alpha Centauri couldn't move too far out of reach, clearly you were of some importance - but he's still trying to figure that part out. Alpha Centauri is a very secretive sort of group, enabled by their nomadic nature and very people-averse, even more-so than the junkyard people which he'd come to term as junkrats. They were also an odd sort of semi-feral, but you seemed more far-gone in a way he can't quite pinpoint. Clearly you can speak, you're actually quite articulate when you say more than two words, but it isn't something that's made itself known to him. You're probably the first willing hostage that the Saviors have ever taken, and it puts him in a strange position, where usually he'd put you in an unlit, dark, would-be cell, it seemed that whatever you'd left behind might be worse than that, just from your sickly sort of pallor. 

 

"Send the medical report over when you're done, when she talks, I want to know," he wants - or rather, needs - to know about Alpha Centauri, but it's not a main priority for him as they're a weak group in terms of power, but a decent resource. More people doing runs meant more supplies, it was that simple.

 

He lifts Lucille a little with a toss upward that moves his hand further down the handle of the bloodied bat.

 

"I got shit to do, doc - so I'll leave her in your capable hands. Dwight'll collect her," there wasn't much logic to choosing Dwight, but being that he carried you in, he just sort of mentally assigned the man to the job. Dwight was trustworthy, even if he didn't like Negan overmuch, not many people did. They feared him, yes. But like? Not so much. He leaves a slightly sweating Dr Carson, and he lets out the breath that he's been holding, before turning back into the room and finding you poking around the room, quietly reading some of the medical charts on the walls and trying to pronounce some of the more complex words under your breath to pass the time. The scene is odd, but strangely innocent, and it only further worries Dr Carson - because innocent doesn't do well in the Sanctuary.

 

You don't belong here anymore than he does.

 

* * *

 

 

 

To say that Dwight is displeased is an understatement - he can now say that he knows how Laura feels to be given tasks well beneath his station. Still, it could be a whole lot worse, there's something to be said about not having to be in Negan's personal entourage and instead, be charged with looking after a tiny woman. It's a lot less stressful too - the task was, quite simply, to get you from A to B and keep an eye on you, what exactly he's supposed to be looking out for, he's not sure. You're definitely not the threat, you don't even have a weapon on your persons, but when he looks at you practically swimming in your number emblazoned jersey, half-slinking down one arm revealing the deep purple bruising, it jars him.

 

Negan didn't ask Dwight to shepherd you for any reason that reflects on Dwight's character. He's neither soft nor gentle and there is nothing about his disposition that would lead anybody to think that Dwight is especially equipped to deal with you. It dawns on him as you deftly follow him, pattering behind in those tiny little dolly shoes, that the reason Negan's asked him to keep an eye on you is to babysit you, to keep you in good hands while he's off the premises, or otherwise engaged. The fact is, you're the lamb in the house of lions, and Negan knows that fact. He knows that Dwight knows - pretty much anybody who looks at you and how much you don't belong there can tell that you haven't earned your place. You're simply there.

 

Dwight makes a decent prison guard, but you're not a prisoner either - you're - God, he's not even sure if you're technically a hostage or not. In the absolute loosest sense of the word, you are, but hostages so rarely come willingly and Dwight has definitely dealt with a fair few hostage scenarios with other settlements over the years. 

 

"This is where you sleep, house rules - don't be an asshole, because other people live in this apartment block that you've graciously been given," he lead you to a small, green building - and unlocked a door on the second floor after traversing a set of stairs and leading you down a dark, barely lit corridor. 

 

"This is your home now," and there's a tone of finality to it that is neither comforting nor welcoming as he opens the door and walks you through. It's an ugly pea green and a little on the modest size, but your eyes are impossibly wide - you're hungrily taking it all in, but every piece of furniture makes your heart sink a little bit more. There's a sofa with two orange pillows, a desk with an old CR-TV on it which probably hadn't been turned on in years, some tall ugly lamps - it was your own living space. You could see a small kitchenette with a camping stove - there was probably a bathroom and a bedroom, but you stood in the space, feeling more and more uncomfortable as time passed.

 

You knew you were going to have to earn all of this stuff, that's the only reason that men put you up in nice places to begin with.

 

Dwight hands you the key, oblivious to your discomfort, but gives you a chilling sort of warning as he looks down at your sloped shoulders and exposed sub-dermal bruising.

 

"Lock your door at night, understand?" he said calmly. "Lock your door at night, lock it when you're alone in here, lock it when you leave. Always lock up, do you understand?"

 

"Yes sir," you mumble, rolling the key between your fingers and swallowing thickly.

 

"There's not always gonna be someone here to babysit your ass, and everybody here is here because they can look after themselves, and if you can't - it'll show. Nothing good will come of it, if it shows. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, girl?" he doesn't like calling you Thirteen, there's something weird and dehumanising about it, but somehow, calling you 'girl' doesn't seem as bad, because he can at least say you're definitely a female, and not just a number.

 

"I understand," you said insistently, nodding twice.

 

"Good, you're not as dumb as you look," he said abruptly. "I don't know what Negan expects me to do here, or expects from you, but when he tells you to jump, you ask 'how high?' - you do everything he says, and you don't question it. The easy ride will stop pretty quickly if you do anything outside of that. Now, I know that guy. Known him a couple of years," it's not like Dwight to talk this much, but clearly he's going to be stuck watching you for a while until Negan's return, and he's not about to sit in silence while the biggest oddity to hit the Sanctuary sits across from him like a mute doll. He drops himself onto one side of the couch and watches as you mirror him, but make as much of a gap between your bodies as you physically can.

 

"Every now and then, he'll get a wild hair up his ass about something," said Dwight, considering his words as he looked at you, watching as you played with the ends of your sagging jersey idly. "He's hard to predict, sometimes."

 

"Seems you're that hair now, so what happens to you is anyone's guess. But our people and your people, we have an agreement going, and you're insurance, so nothing as far as I can wager is gonna happen to you. But don't go pushing your luck, is what I'm trying to tell you," 

 

"I wont, I promise," you express the sentiment earnestly, but you still feel like your heart might drop straight out of your chest and fall out of your ass every time you looked around at what you'd been lavished with. Hostages don't usually get treated like this, you know that much, so you're going to earn your keep either way - why else would they have a doctor check you over? Eventually, he left you alone, but stood outside your door until he heard you lock it from the other side - then you heard the sound of his footsteps leave. You lay on the couch, and stared up at the ceiling absently. 

 

Get up, do the dishes, wax the floor, bleach the surfaces, dust the shelves, do some sewing, cook, look after the little ones - occasionally poke a shambler through the skull with a long-distance would-be spear which was often a knife taped to a crude piece of plywood to help secure the perimeter - but that was very rare. Those were your average days in Alpha Centauri - they were painfully domestic, and always had been. In fact, it wasn't really your  _days_ which were your problem, it was the  _nights._ The nights were long, and drained you of every last strand of energy you had, and you couldn't tell when Payton would come to you, or when he wouldn't. Troy would come some times, but he never slept with you, he always just looked after you when his father left, and delicately washed all of your bruises. He was a soft place to fall, and then he'd read you something before you fell asleep.

 

You're laying and staring at the ceiling for what feels like decades, because the idea of earning your keep here is making you a tad ill, there's nothing much you think that you can really do. From what you could infer about the kind of place that the Sanctuary was, there probably wasn't any children here for you to look after.

 

That was an important thing, that's why being a number is important. You were the only girl in Alpha Centauri when Twelve died and that made you the defacto maternal presence. What good would it possibly do you here? What would these scary people ask you to do? Dwight had warned you to lock your doors, but that just meant something had to be kept out, and that it wasn't as safe as you wished it would be. These are scary, dangerous people - freaks, thugs, rough and tumble sorts - you had to secure your safety here, somehow. It meant you had to get in good with the boss, or a high up Savior like Dwight, or you might end up going back to Payton.

 

 _I'm brave -_ you told yourself, hoping you'd believe it as you ran your fingers through your hair, closed your eyes, and for a moment - imagined Troy doing it. None of them understood how brave it was for you to turn on Payton and refuse to get in that truck, absolutely none of them knew. Troy would say you were brave, because even he very rarely stood up to Payton and never in a million years would he do it in the way that you had.

 

Hours pass, and you fall asleep a few times, only to wake up to the sound of gentle knocking. You were wary, and took Dwight's advice to heart, opening the door a small crack first, before letting out a short gasp when you were met with the sight of a dark, piercing stare that leered over you massively.

 

"Making yourself at home?" it's the boss - it must be the end of the day, because there's no natural light in the room anymore, so you're laying in the darkness. He switched on a light as you opened the door, missing the look of fascination when you realised electricity actually pumped into this building, because the very ugly lamp actually switched on. When you realise his question isn't actually rhetorical, you nod your head, chewing on your lip nervously as his massive, all-encompassing presence fills your modest apartment and makes it seem that much smaller the moment he steps in it.

 

"Do you like it?" he said with a charming smile, all you could do was nod shyly.

 

"That's good, that's good," he hums, before plonking himself quite contently where Dwight was once sitting.

 

"Sit your ass down," he adds cheerfully, patting the area on the couch directly beside him. It meant that you didn't have the option to sequester yourself at the other end like you had with Dwight, and unlike Dwight, this man's sheer size alone made him seem gargantuan even as he sat down. It did not, in fact, make him seem more personable, but you could recognise the effort. Still, you moved like a burned house cat, your eyes not leaving his form for even a second as you delicately moved forward to sit directly next to him, being careful to leave a small gap between your bodies so that you didn't touch.

 

"There's a good girl," he's a bit patronising when he says that, but you ignore it, instead - you're just fiddling with your jersey again. You're a fiddler and a twitcher when you're nervous, and clearly you must be, because you didn't seem quite so disassociated as you had when he had last laid eyes on you. 

 

"I thought I'd let you settle in first, but I think this is long enough. You and me - we're going to have a lovely little fucking talk. Just us," he smiled "-so you know exactly what the fuck is going to happen in the morning, alright?"

 

You gave a short sigh of relief - even if you were scared, it would be nice to know what exactly is going to happen to you, no matter how horrible it may be.

 

"Yes sir,"

 

* * *

 

 

 Negan noticed the moment your back went completely rigid. You're completely on alert - as you should be, he thinks, you don't know which way is up. You're in a scenario where the best thing to do is to submit to the will of everybody around you, and to your credit, you seemed to be doing just that. Dwight reported no problems with you, you didn't talk much, he said - but you were very low maintenance. It was a good sign that you'd locked the door, and that you didn't trust anybody in the Sanctuary, that was definitely the best thing to do. None of the men here are particularly nice, he picked them for the exact reason that they weren't. You needed a working relationship with them in order to know where you were in the pecking order, and that, in turn, kept you safe. You needed to be part of the Sanctuary society to understand the society and therefore be safe.

 

You're a delicate presence, and you do not belong here.

 

"Why don't you start by telling me," he moved his hand under his chin, elbow leaning on his leg as he crossed one over the other, his head half-turned to look at you. "-by telling me what kind of a place names a girl after a number,"

 

You shrug a little - letting the jersey slink down your shoulder and expose those damaged, purple, broken blood vessels. At first, it would have annoyed him, but he realises his words are a bit nebulous, and maybe you weren't very socialised. Dr Carson's words stick in his head, and he has to remember that you're a product of your environment, and that is exactly how he has to treat you if he wants to use you effectively.

 

"Tell me about Alpha Centauri," he elaborated. "Leave absolutely fucking nothing out,"

 

You frowned - that's a big question, and to be honest, you don't know how to answer. What would a big boss man want to know about a community? Inventory? Population numbers? Trade skills? Yeah, he'll want to know all of that stuff so that he can squeeze Payton for everything he has and can do, and if you don't want to go back, you should tell him everything.

 

"There are thirty-ish people including Payton. Less now, six of those are children. All of the people are men, no women now apart from some of the kids, only two are girls though," you feel something twinge in your gut - there's a noticeable flash of discomfort in your face as you mention it. You aren't there to look after them now - who would be taking care of them? Would he be looking for a Fourteen already? Were you selfish for leaving it for the lion's den? He can see the fact you're very uncomfortable mentioning it, but it isn't his prerogative to hurt little-ass kids, and he almost says as much, but you start speaking again.

 

"We moved every year, to um, stay safe," well, Negan knew that - it was the leading cause of the pain in his neck whenever he tried to run them down for supplies. "I don't actually know that much, I wasn't allowed to get involved. I - I mostly looked after the kids," you said shyly.

 

Ah, that explained the look of discomfort. It's guilt. You left them.

 

"I don't need to know about that, I know they don't have guns for shit, you move like roaches, and I know what you export. Tell me what the fuck an average day in Alpha Centauri is," he cut right to the chase when it seemed like you wouldn't get there, and he ignored the bewildered expression. The fact of it is - Dr Carson sent over that report, and frankly, it had been atrocious - too much for one little body to sustain over a prolonged period of time, and he's somebody that did not ever spare the rod when it came to misbehaving Saviors. He wants to account for it, he wants to know exactly what he's dealing with when it comes to Payton, he wants to figure out how valuable you are as a hostage, and he can only do that if he fills in the gaps.

 

You told him your average day, and not only was it sickeningly domestic, but it seemed wholly out of place in the Collapse, and it accounted for nothing in the report. 

 

"Why didn't you want to get in the truck?" he tries that instead.

 

"Payton isn't very nice," you settled on that, your whole world has changed - he had purposefully reduced it until it was only as big as he had allowed for. You're small, frightened and confused, it had been so overwhelming that you'd passed out in the van on the way back to the compound.

 

"I'm not very nice," replied Negan dryly "I'll skip to my point. If you moved around so much, how the fuck is it that you can believe that there was nobody outside of your group alive? Are you telling me in all this time, you've never seen a fucking living soul?"

 

"I didn't get out much,"

 

Yeah, no fucking shit.

 

It feels like he's getting nowhere with you, he's asking you things and you're answering but it's not what he is looking for. The thing is though, there is something about how you present yourself that prevents him from getting angry or visibly frustrated. He thinks that if he does that, you might just collapse into the sum of your parts. You're too frail seeming for that, he thinks - and even his most hardened Saviors shit their pants in the face of his rage. 

 

"Can I ask _you_ something?" your voice is soft and shy, and it silences the next question in Negan's throat. "How big is this place?"

 

Huh, but then it clicked. The leader had done nothing but lie and isolate you, your world must have been so utterly small that this was not only a culture shock, but something you were still trying to come to terms with. 

 

"A-and why did you kill Troy?" you stammered out - the million dollar question. It was something you had struggled to reconcile and you'd cried for hours upon hours until your eyes bruised. The answer was wholly unsatisfying, but at the same time, it made a lot of sense because you knew exactly the kind of guy that Troy had been. It was as simple as Negan never aiming for Troy to begin with.

 

"Believe it or not, I liked the guy," said Negan with a shrug "Would have liked to have dealt with him instead of that jackhole, Payton. Troy just got in the way, and that's all there is to it. Fuckin' shame really, I was aiming for Payton. My advice? Don't try to be a fucking hero. It'll nearly always get you killed." He's blunt, and from the hurt little look on your face, he briefly wonders if he should have softened his words - but he's not a man in the habit of doing that, so he doesn't, nor does he linger on the thought for very long. "-as for how big this place is? There's about.... seventy-ish of us, I'd say. Give or take." He smirked at how wide your eyes went, and pushed on that reaction. "-that's if you don't count the assholes we deal with on the regular for supply runs, like Alexandria, the Hilltop, the Kingdom - just, whole entire shithives of people."

 

"Oh," it's practically a squeak, and you're looking at your lap as you say it, biting down on your lip again.

 

"Boy, this must be really fucking confusing for you, huh?" he states flatly, amusement laced in his tone as you nodded feebly.

 

"I'm confused," you agreed softly, closing your eyes and looking remarkably young when you spoke "-I'm confused, and I'm really scared, and I don't know what's happening."

 

He didn't expect you to be so forthright with your feelings, but you're an odd little creature - border feral in some ways, just plain weird in others. You miss the raised brow when you state your abject terror, but the honesty is strangely refreshing, because usually Negan has little to no respect for the kind of people who cry and piss themselves in fear, less for those who fake their bravado - but this kind of honesty? It had been a long time since he dealt with something so purely raw and unfiltered, there was no deciphering or discernment to be done when it came to what you were feeling. You were an open book, and if asked something, you simply uttered the answer.

 

"I want to know what you're going to make me do,"

 

Now that's a curious turn of phrase, particularly use of the word 'make'. Negan wondered, briefly, if Dwight had filled your head with something or what, but your inherent mistrust is showing, and again, he thinks it's very well-placed. The mistrust and your choice of words may also show him something about the place you've left behind, so he rolls with the punches.

 

"Meaning?"

 

"The clothes, and the...place," you gestured to the apartment around you as you opened your eyes, looking at him haplessly. "It's not free, nothing is free - so um, what are you going to make me do?" 

 

He stares at you blankly, and it's only when he sees your fingers fiddling with the elastic drawstring of the work-out shorts you're in that the alarm bells start ringing in his head. No wonder you look fucking miserable if this is the first place your mind goes. Christ, Dwight said you had a sad disposition about you and it bothered him to no end and now it was very apparent why. You seemed to have drawn your own conclusions as to what possible use you'd have, and why you'd be set up in your own little apartment space after having done nothing to deserve it.

 

"W-what kind of things do you like?" your voice is strained and quiet "-you can turn me over if you want and pretend I'm someone else, I know I'm not much to look at, but I'm very good - honest! I don't even cry that much anymore, unless you like that kind of thing,"

 

It hits Negan like a fucking freight train, and he cant wipe the look of absolute disgust off of his face when it finally hits him. He's not a good man, but he does apparently have some code of ethics, no matter how hypocritical it may be. A sick sort of feeling wrenches in his gut as he stares at you, listening to the kinds of things you were just flat out fucking  _assuming._

 

"Y-you're really big though, you'll probably split me in half so - please try to go slow first if you - if you can," you're cringing as you talk, and it might be the least sexy thing he's ever heard, and he can see the absolute dread on your face as you do it, and no, he's not insulted by it, he's just disgusted that this is instantly what you think he might do. Christ, you must think he's some kind of a monster, and it's not too far off the mark - it's not like he'd done much to endear himself, and the nice gestures must be more than confusing. OF fucking course, this is where your mind goes. God, what must those Alpha Centauri animals have been like if this is how you talk about yourself?

 

"What the fuck?!" Negan's voice booms over you, causing you to flinch "-stop!" his voice is firm, and his eyes are wide. It's not easy to shock him, but this felt like it had come out of left field, so yes, he was a bit shocked. You flinch, and you tilt your head down, fingers shaking slightly around the elastic band of your shorts as you absolutely freeze in place on command.

 

"Oh, fucking... fuck," he sighs, instantly regretting letting himself get loud when he sees how hard you recoil. This wouldn't do at all. "-Is that what you think this is? You're a hostage, not a fuck toy. You don't have to do anything for all this," he says with a scowl "-shit, don't get me wrong, it's not free, but we can talk about earning your keep in the morning. You don't have to - fuck's sake, that's just - Jesus fucking Christ, girl," he swore violently.

 

"Nobody fucks me unless they want to fuck me, I have wives for that," he says, returning to his earlier calm as best he can, he doesn't want to frighten you any more than you already are. "You don't have to fuck anybody else either, fucking hell - we're not monsters."

 

Oh.

 

"We don't function like the dive you fucking left behind," he explains as gently as he can manage - he's not a gentle man, so it's quite hard. "I gave you this lodging because I thought I would find you a fucking place in my community so you'll fit the fuck in and so nobody would have to babysit your ass anymore, since you came to us willingly. So people know who you are, what you do and why you're here so you're safe, and that you don't just fucking sit around like some kind of fancy fucking pet or some shit,"

 

It's not an unrealistic jump though, to expect hostage to mean fuck toy, he wouldn't doubt there's plenty of people in the Collapse that'd do that. Negan however, is not one of those people.

 

"Sorry," you blurt out after a long moment of sceptical, awkward silence - but how angry can Negan let himself be? He takes one look, remembers Carson's words, and instantly remembers that you simply don't know any better. He is not an unreasonable man, so he cannot hate you for that. It's kind of fucked up to him that you're even apologising, you don't have anything to say sorry for, you make a not-too-unreasonable assumption, but still.

 

"Apology accepted," his voice has an odd flatness to it, and he's frowning when he looks at you. "Get some rest, we'll talk another time."

 

He effectively dismisses you as he gets up to leave, and you just sit there, ears flaming in embarrassment.

 

_Stupid girl._

 

 

 


	3. Just Negan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh i've had writer's block for so long that any comment is appreciated, that's why this is so disgustingly short :(

 

 

So, this left you with all of the things you're good at, which you think are shockingly few things when compared to all that the Saviors did to keep their society running. It's a weird place, for certain. Mr Negan commands a respect that causes people to kneel on sight, he's an ideal as well as a man. He's everything that Payton wishes he could be, you think. He's different - but you don't actually get to spend as much time with him as you had the day you were first brought into the Sanctuary. He must be a busy person, which left you with a strangely quiet sort of life. The apartment was safe to sleep in, and it was odd to not have the door creak open and to feel your body get turned over, ready to please. There's no Troy to read you to sleep either, and it leaves a massive, gaping feeling of emptiness inside of your chest that you cant quite fill. Can you hate Troy? You probably should, he kept the world's biggest secret from you and didn't break Payton's narrative once. He made the world seem frighteningly small and Troy went along with it. You should probably hate Troy, you realise, but.... you don't. It just hurts.

 

There's a guy next door to you, he's a stocky sort with a thick brow and a small, unfeeling smile, and somewhat oily hair. He's not as ugly as the description portrays, he's just often put upon and exhausted because he works the Sanctuary's metalworks so he's usually covered in a thick layer of grime. He is, for lack of better term, a blacksmith - no matter how dated it may seem, from all of the books you'd read, there's no other word for it. His name is Rodney, and he's somewhere in his thirties if you had to guess, but you were never good at guessing ages. On the third day of you mostly staying in your apartment, locked up and quiet, you met Rodney on the stairs when you wandered out briefly for fresh air. It was odd having that kind of a freedom where you could do that, even if it was ill-advised while you weren't really _earning_ your stay there. There's a points system for bartering apparently, and it's only on Negan's order that you even have things in your pantry. Dwight had come and dumped a plastic bag on the second day, enough to feed a small thing like you for a week, when in reality it was maybe three days of food. 

 

It really does feel like you should be doing something, because this isn't how hostages usually get treated. Maybe if you were doing something, people would feel less like you're a mooching intruder which Negan took in on a whim and more like someone who deserved to be there, if you don't - it might make it easier to send you back to Payton, and that just would not do. You made a point of taking a risk, and trying to engage Rodney - he was always tired, and so he was incredibly cranky - but nonetheless, you held his door open for him, and picked up some of the groceries he'd dragged himself to the warehouse to get after a long, gruelling day of metalworking.

 

You're sickeningly nice, and it's enough that he doesn't actually hate you. One look at him and you can tell his entire body must be aching from his daily exertion, his hands must kill too. They accidentally brushed your bare skin once as you hauled in his bags and you felt how horribly calloused they were as he wiped a little soot onto your jersey. It's all a big distraction, because Mr Negan actually hasn't come back to talk to you after you made a fool of yourself. You had to wonder if he really wasn't "like that" in the way Payton was, or if he was just recoiling from having had such an offer from such a substandard looking girl. He said he had wives, plural. They were all probably very pretty - the people here worshipped him, so he'd probably have his pick of the crop. It was probably like a disgusting little rat approaching a lion, you mused.

 

"You're good at that," Rodney's voice is as rough as his dirty hands, it reminds you of grinding stone.

 

You smiled up at him shyly, sitting on the floor of your apartment with your legs crossed as you worked on his beaten shoes. He has massive feet, you thought - which meant it was pretty difficult to find him shoes that fit, and people wear through their clothes quickly in the end of days, you knew that better than most. He went and found you some adhesive and you wetted your fingers with icy cold water that freely flowed through the taps in this strangely functional little place and used it to spread the glue evenly without it sticking to your fingers, also helping it to set quicker because the sole was becoming rapidly detached from the shoe. Your fingers are long, slender and delicate - which is why Troy would call you his little Spider, and they made for excellent handiwork.

 

"I've fixed a lot of shoes and clothes," mostly kids, because they manage to run through theirs even quicker than adults, and it was harder to find child-things than one would think in a world full of shamblers and roamers. 

 

"I can tell, you can work a shoe pretty well, what else can you do?" he's asking the million dollar question, because if Negan isn't fucking you - which he knows in crystal terms he isn't, or you'd be in the boudoir - it begs the obvious 'what are you doing here?' - because the given line was hostage, but no hostage the Saviors had ever taken got their own housing unless they were actively contributing to the Sanctuary, and you weren't. Your skillset, if any, was largely unclear, but it was early days, so it didn't make people annoyed or restless yet - but you needed to find something you were good at and quick, because nobody in this dog-eat-dog society liked moochers. Not one.

 

"Cook, and clean, I guess," you shrug - you don't think you're good at much, but put the shoes down proudly when you've repaired the sole, advising him to let it dry overnight before sliding them on in the morning. "-I'm good at fixing clothes though, and um, dresses, making dresses - " at his look, his very odd look, you felt the need to defend yourself for reasons unclear to you "-not for me, of course!" you never got the dresses. Never.

 

That just made him raise a brow, because that seemed even stranger, until he jumps out of his skin and crumbles to the floor on one knee. 

 

You stiffed entirely, placing the boots down and turning to where Rodney's stare was directed before he was able to rise. It could only be one thing - and that was that Mr Negan had finally come to resume that chat, and you hadn't heard him come in, because Rodney had left the door wide open, which is something you wouldn't do after Dwight's warning. Rodney was a big guy though, and if he was as nice as you thought he might be, you were okay, but it was probably smarter to have the door open in this case. You invited him in to fix his shoes, but if he turned out to be a bit of a risk to be left alone with, it is better if you can take your chances and bolt out of the room. You're still not fully sure what Dwight was warning you about, but Rodney made it apparent quite quickly. The Saviors are the worst of the worst and picked that way on purpose, there's rapers, murderers and all sorts of cutthroats because cutthroats survive, and you clearly were not one of them. Rodney's just here from a place called The Kingdom because he's incredibly good at what he does. It's that simple.

 

Negan stood in the doorway, his hips lazily and confidently pushed forward, body arched in a rather exaggeratedly cocky sort of pose that commanded an air of control as his impressive, muscular width took up your open doorway with ease. His barbed wire bat is lazily at his side this time, the handle twirled between his fingers. Instantly, you felt a wash of dread. Well, perhaps dread wasn't fair, it was more like pure, unfiltered anxiety - because while he hadn't laid a finger to harm you, he was the person who had the power to. Your stay at the Sanctuary as their hostage was entirely in Negan's hands and you had already concluded that you had to do your absolute best to endear yourself to him. It was like the books you read, if you can't beat the big bad, you have to be on their team, and for that, you have to be useful, or have them like you. The fact you had liked Troy and gotten him to like you back is what made Alpha Centauri bearable. You had to do that here, and yes, it was a manipulative tactic, but manipulation may just be the only way you survive in this place. This world.

 

"You, out," he instructs Rodney, pointing his bat - Lucille? - at him with a friendly smile. You'd never seen a man of Rodney's size scramble so fast, he picks up his shoes and the moment Negan steps in the room, he's all but running out, practically falling on his own feet to do so. If the fear wasn't so telling, it might have been amusing, but Rodney's response just reminded you to keep your hackles up, and to stay on guard.

 

"And you, pretty girl, get up and take a seat," his voice is smooth, and over-confident, like he knows no matter what he says, everybody will fall exactly into line, you included.

 

You resist the urge to bristle at the wording, he'd been calling you that from day one, but clear Mr Negan wasn't a very normal man, and he had quite a sarcastic sort of nature about him, so it was probably an insult. There was a word for that you'd read once. Satyr? Sartre?  His eyes glitter at you and he smiles a deceptively kind smile behind his salt and pepper beard that made you frown uncomfortably, rising to your feet and heading for the couch, sitting on it barefoot and nervous.

 

 

_Satire._

 

 

Yes, he's making a joke of you. He must be. You relax a little, because that makes sense to you. In truth, he calls you that because of the comedic response it had garnered when he'd first strolled up to you during the argument with Payton and your first response had been to glance behind your shoulder and it had been such a sickeningly innocent and bumbling reflexive action that it simply stuck with him.

 

"Did you sleep okay?" his question is innocuous, and deceptively innocent. You look at him curiously, and can tell that he's trying to relax you. He's trying to talk to you the way Troy would talk to you after Payton had finished with you for the night, it's that sort of a gentleness, and though you cannot say you trust him, you know that to secure your safety, you need him to trust you.

 

"Yessir," you mumble, watching as he puts the barbed wire bat down delicately across the table so he can speak with his body language easier.

 

"Just Negan," he says gently "-you just call me Negan. No sir, mister or boss. Just Negan,"

 

You're surprised how he qualifies it, and how he specifies a lack of subservience, you'd heard Dwight call him boss before, but it seems that he doesn't want you to call him that. You cant quite understand it, but the reasoning is simple enough. Negan wants to be  _just Negan_ to you, because with you, there is no housebreaking to do, there is nothing he has to have forcefully emblazoned into your mind. You're delicate, quiet and shuddering, you're already in a lot of physical ways, broken, but clearly had enough resilience about you to endure Alpha Centauri, and definitely some kind of a bravery to leave them behind and be a willing hostage. It didn't strike Negan until he went to bed after he first spoke to you, but once he had a vague idea of how small your world had been for such a long time, and how strangely you'd been domesticated, it spoke volumes that you left Payton and even fought with him.

 

There's something worth keeping around in there, he can sense it.

 

"Okay," you say shyly, and he motions to sit close to him, so, you do.

 

Now, as innocent and as frail seeming as you may be, there is absolutely no reason to assume you aren't smart. You are. Whip-smart, if given the chance to show it, it was why Troy had become besotted with you over time, no matter what manner of thing happened to you, there was always something alive about you, something that burned and persisted and wouldn't go out, not from anything Payton had to offer. You're smart, and you're smart enough to realise that he's the big boss, and so all of your chips had to fall in the right place if you were to be safe here. It was a conclusion you reached earlier - to get in good with this odd little group, you had to get in good with Negan. 

 

He's a wild card, all you really had to go on was what Dwight said about him and how he'd behaved with you, and how others seemed to react. They all seemed to be bending the knee to him in some way, just the absolute fear that had radiated from Rodney had told you to play your cards carefully. You had to pause, and consider what you must look like to Negan. You're small, shuddering and innocent - you're a willing hostage, an accomplice, but you don't have much in the way of marketable skills that he's aware of. Last conversation you had with him felt like a violent rejection, which, you don't blame him for - you're not terribly pretty, but it's not normal for men to flat out say no, so either he really was better than the kind of people you came from, or he was just pretending that he was. 

 

"Did you make a little friend?" his voice is patronising, but you don't instinctively hate it. It's probably him trying to be gentle, because sometimes Troy would do that too. Maybe he's trying to be the new Troy? He did say he felt pretty bad about killing him, and you don't have the healthiest compass for judging male behaviour, so any attempt to manipulate Negan to favour you and treat you kindly could go really well, or really badly.

 

"Rodney is nice," you say warily, anything you could say could land you in trouble, or others. Dwight gave you the impression you shouldn't be talking to anybody, but Negan hadn't said that, so maybe this was okay. He didn't react negatively, he just nodded and smiled at you. "He was struggling up the stairs and so I helped,"

 

He hums - and looks you over. He thinks you're the kind of person who'd die instantly - not the sort he'd waste his time on, but there is something delicate about you that makes him want to keep you in place, like a lamb with a broken ankle, or a bird with broken wings. He doesn't like killing women, generally, or sending them to their deaths, so you're playing off of all the right emotions, whether you realise it or not, and your small, sweet demeanour whilst wholly out of place, had him vaguely amused and enthralled by the novelty that it could still exist in the apocalypse. You're like a relic of the world before.

 

"Well, it seems you've kept yourself a little busy, and he raised a good question, about what you can do," he crosses a leg over his knee lazily and looks at you - knowing he needs to find a place that can slot you in and keep you relatively safe because this current arrangement was tenacious at best.

 

"I can fix clothes and stuff," you chew on your lip, there's no children here, and so you're glancing down, playing with your fingers out of anxiety. You can cook, but there's a level of trust that needs to be there to be let near a pantry when it came to the scarcity of food these days, honestly, you feel like fucking might be the only thing you're good at and clearly he doesn't want you for that.

 

"Mostly I made dresses or um, helped with the leatherworks from my room," you said quietly, glancing away "-we used a lot of knives and melee stuff because we didn't have much ammunition for the guns we had, so um, our runners had really thick leather body armour, and - and sometimes, shamblers would bite through it, so they'd send it to me,"

 

Two words caught Negan's attention, and his smile broadens so much so that you find yourself highly unnerved looking at it.

 

"I think I've seen it, it's some fucking cool shit. Leather working is hard, right? You gotta tan that shit and do whatever else, shit. I know you gotta work it pretty hard. Body armour. Yeah," he strokes his broad jawline and licks his lower lip - like he's just figured something out. "-Yeah, I think I fucking like the sound of that!"

 

He throws you for six when he pats his thigh, and does his best to soften his demeanour.

 

"Come sit on daddy's lap a second - that's me by the way. I'm daddy, so we're clear," if he was saying it for shock value, it didn't phase you. He expected an instinctively negative reaction, what he didn't expect was for you to delicately get up to your feet and patter over to him, before placing yourself awkwardly on his knee. It's not the first time somebody has asked you to sit on their lap, but it's definitely not something you ask someone you don't know so well - right out of the gate. That's why Negan's surprised when you do it, and you acquiesce to most demands - like a little doll.

 

"Damn you really are light as fuck," he says casually, before reaching his arms out to move you down on a marginally softer part of his leg - further up his left thigh and therefore more intimate, but certainly a damn sight more comfortable than sitting on his jutting kneecap.

 

You're not sure why exactly he's asked you to do this, if there's no perverted reason, then it's probably a power move - he watches as you refuse to flinch or stiffen and instead slowly draw your eyes shut when you feel him brushing some hair behind your shoulder so that he can see the savagery done to your neck with better ease. It makes your breathe catch in your throat, because for a moment, it reminds you of when Troy used to do it - but you do not let yourself lull into that sense of security. It was dangerous here, and so was Mr Negan - what you had to do, was get on his good side, which meant jumping when he said jump, and sitting on his lap when he asked.

 

"Dwight wasn't kidding - we gotta fix that, get some meat on them bones," he says after a moment "-how would you feel about working closer with me?" 

 

He watches as you bite down on your lip, looking nervously at the gap between your body and his crotch and while you recall his earlier sentiments, it's hard not to let your mind go there first.

 

"Shit, doll. Not like that. Unless you want. Nah," he waves it off casually, with a lot less vocalised disgust this time, it's a lot more blasé. "-boy this must be really fucking confusing for you, huh? You must think I'm a goddamn psycho or some shit, doc said you were a little bit feral-ish. So I'm gonna slow things down a bit for you. I think I have a good fucking job for you. A real good job. Easy living - that honestly? Some people here would fucking kill for. You're gonna earn your keep like most everyone else, but I ain't gonna send you out into the fucking fray,"

 

He glances at the sagging jersey and the fading purple bruising and then at your swollen lip - the confusion swimming behind your big large eyes. 

 

"You're a bit too fucking delicate seeming for that. No. I want you - to attend my wives, alright? You're a harmless little creature so they won't fucking much mind it - but girls are messy as fuck. Did anyone ever tell you that?" he asks rhetorically, raising an eyebrow "-they're messy as  _fuck -_ and they always  _want shit -_ now, a perk of being my wife is what they want, they get, but fuck - they're so goddamn bad at looking after themselves I have to give an hour advance warning before I even go near the goddamn boudoir. All you have to do, is do exactly what you used to do before. Domestic stuff - and keep track of all the shit they use, and what they want more of. It'll make my life a damn bit easier. You think looking after one woman is a pain in the ass?"

 

He chuckles and lets out a low whistle "-fucking hell, try six!"

 

You wondered why a man would want so many wives, but didn't feel it your place to ask - maybe that's just how he justified wanting to sleep around a lot, or something.

 

"So, you want me to be their maid, kind of?" servant would probably be more accurate, but he nods, and he smiles what he hopes is a reassuring smile. The sense of alarm was waning, and the apprehension that came from being perched in such a strange place waned - sure, Troy and Payton had you do it, and on the rare occasion you were conversing with other people of Alpha Centauri - which you so loved to do when you could - it wasn't out of the ordinary, but Negan was a stranger. So yes, this was odd. But you're - well, you're housebroken. Domesticated. Brought to bend the knee. Your body would have probably reacted to the command long before your brain even thought to protest, even if you were tempting the thought.

 

"Unless there's something else you think you might be better at?" he says, his dark eyes appraising you while you struggled to keep his stare - it was too intense to be this close, you thought. You think you're only really good at making men happy, but that had garnered a large amount of disgust the last time you made that known, and you couldn't blame him from being disgusted, you were probably a guttersnipe in his eyes. 

 

Negan, however, is much more concerned with how quick you are to obey a command as admittedly unreasonable as the one he'd made to have you sit on his lap. He didn't do it for any particular nefarious reason, nor did he feel an overwhelming urge to lord his power of you, as you seemed quite powerless all on your own. No, this was actually a small test to see what kind of a socialisation you had, and whether he was making the right judgement call in how he was treating you. He isn't one to be exploited, but part of him - and it's what he tells himself his Saviors do, hence the namesake - is dedicated to protecting the weak. 

 

And God, do you seem so pathetically weak - but the thing that sticks out to him, that makes him more intrigued then any kind of disgusted, is the level of resilience shown. He'd worked out on his own that your defiance of Payton at such a crucial point in time was a massive jump and privately discussing it with the doctor for his two cents on the matter, he agreed it was monumental, and showed you had some autonomy, however much smaller than normal it was. The thing that sticks out though is that needle of bravery, and the impressive, if disturbing, disregard for your own life. It's usually not an admirable trait so much as an idiotic and suicidal one, but you accepted the inevitability of death with such a lack of fear that he could not help but be impressed by it, because he'd seen men three times your age crumble much more disgracefully at the sheer prospect.

 

So yes, some bit of you is strong, and the scariest sorts of people are the ones with nothing to lose. Maybe with a bit of polishing, you could really be something. The leather-working experience and body armour crafting for instance, was massively useful, as was a general clothier. 

 

 _Yes,_ Negan thought - this girl could be  _something._

 

Waste not, want not, after all.

 

Part of him feels like it should be telling you off though, just for sitting on his lap so readily with no resistance, but he doesn't want to give you mixed-messages. He cannot forcibly undo whatever years of conditioning Alpha Centauri had done to make your behaviour so disturbingly submissive. Plus, if there is anyone it's "okay" to submit to, it's Negan himself - and he decides that this lesson of "not doing what EVERYONE says" should be best applied practically, if someone else tries something with you, so as to best drive the lesson home without confusing you as to who you had to listen to.

 

He realised he was in his thoughts too long when your shoulders go up to your ears and you're looking down at yourself, face burning with what looks like a vague sense of shame, or maybe embarrassment, that you couldn't really find anything you thought you were good at besides what he'd already told you off for when you had that first private discussion with him.

 

"Um, I'm not really good at anything else, I don't think, besides um... bedroom stuff, but - you said you...don't want me for anything like that," you said, brow furrowed in seemingly deep thought, though the choice of wording strikes an uncomfortable chord in the other man. Everything about your phrasing was always blunt and honest sounding, without a hint of any manipulation on your part, but it was always the choice of wording which seemed to set the much more experienced man off. In his time, setting up the Saviors and before this, he'd cycled through a fair amount of travel companions, and he'd washed up in different communities before, and had seen the depths of depravity first hand. Hell, he'd had people offer their young baby  _children_ up to him for wholly inappropriate purposes, just because they  _could,_ and there were no rules anymore. It never ceased to raise bile and disgust in his throat. This felt like a jarring reminder of those times - when he heard you speak, only, now he was forced to deal with it long-term. He couldn't just leave. Maybe that's why you evoked such a visceral response in him, this urge to just  _indulge_ you. Perhaps the childlike demeanour played on some of his old teaching urges, to boot - either way, you had hit too many of the man's personal bother-buttons for him to leave you to fend for yourself.

 

He also couldn't help but think the way you spoke about how he didn't  _want_ you for sexual purposes evoked the same vibe of unhealthily low self-esteem and submissiveness you'd reflected when you first offered yourself up to him, with tears practically in your eyes, bracing your tiny body to be broken into. 

 

"-a-and I don't think I'd want to. For um, for everyone. You have a great deal lot more people and it would really hurt," there's mousy embarrassed tones, and you finish it with a small apology "-Sorry."

 

He raises a brow at you, his expression refusing to display that uncomfortable boil of emotions inside of him as he looks at how little space you consciously try to take of his lap. His lap is immense, he thinks - and you don't need to be quite so on edge, but then he remembers how sensitive you are, and that you're only sitting there because you're not brave enough to defy jokey-commands or perhaps, even differentiate them. He wondered what you were apologising for exactly, his mind first assuming that it might be because you don't  _want_ to be a prostitute-sort, until he remembered his own question, and realised you were apologising for not having more "uses".

 

"Perfectly alright," he smiles, consciously trying to put on his charismatic persona "-I was just asking in case there was anything else you feel you'd be better suited to. I don't want to make you uncomfortable here, but leather-works and tending my wives is plenty. I promise," 

 

 _I promise._ He chooses that odd turn of phrase because he wants you to know there's nothing unsightly in this agreement that he'd spring on you further down the line. This is all there was. He promised.

 

He feels you shift a little on his thigh to a slightly less squishy part in an effort to keep this less intimate, trying to get yourself a bit more comfortable despite the awkwardness, and for a moment - he's surprised. The undernourishment and the strangely skinny parts of you where skin had noticeably stretched and left stretchmarks to prove it made him think you might be all bones, elbows and knees to the touch. He's pleasantly surprised when there's none of that, and you are in fact, entirely soft. 

 

"Okay," you said unsurely, feeling the awkwardness hit you hard as you quailed under how close his intense stare was. You had to wonder if he even knew he consciously did that, or just how intimidating his thick figure could be, even when sat down, and how cold his furrowed brows and wide, handsome, over-masculine set jaw and structure just radiated a miasma of not only  _alpha_ but an entirely intoxicating sort of domineering atmosphere that threatened to capsize and drown everything in a close radius of it. Even his deep, yet silky baritone was all-encompassing, just like his tremendously strong body. It's little wonder he's the leader of this group - he has that sort of a top dog nature, the sort of fellow who sits all the way at the head of the pack. King of the food-chain.

 

"Now, one last thing," you falter at this, because you detect a strange hesitancy in the cocky man's tone. It's the first time you've heard it. "Do you remember when I asked you about why you didn't want to go with Payton?"

 

You nod once, a wary expression on your face.

 

"You said something about dying there, and making a 'fourteen' - it's been bothering me, so I need you to clear this up," he's careful to be very specific in what he's looking for, this time. "-what exactly would happen to you now if you were turned back over to Alpha Centauri?" when he saw a flash of what he swore was fear, he found himself sounding bizarrely consoling "-just, indulge me a little longer,".

 

You remember how he had threatened you in the truck when you'd first been hauled in, and made it crystal clear that you answer his questions. Judging from how Dr Carson, Negan and even Dwight had acted around you though, it felt like every time you opened your mouth about your people, they looked back at you like you were some sort of miserable alien, like everything about it was highly abnormal and so was your attitude.

 

And, well, was it? You frowned to yourself, surely in the apocalypse - Alpha Centauri isn't  _the worst -_ did however you were raised really warrant this kind of negative attention? Troy had been good to you, for a while, you thought. It hadn't been all bad! You had to fight the urge to defend the place, as fucked up as that was.

 

Coding your emotions was just difficult when they were this complicated, and this tangled up in each other. For the longest of time, Alpha Centauri was all you really had known, and had good memory of.

 

"Well, there's  _some_ parts of me Payton likes," you admitted softly, frowning still and tugging on the string of your shorts absentmindedly on his lap "-not a lot. I'm not as pretty as the other ones were. My hands are too long and he thinks I'm a little plain,".

 

Negan is utterly blank and confused at where you're going with this, but he stayed quiet and listened, still baring that intense expression of his.

 

"He - he um, he thinks I have a nice skin tone, and um, my lips - and...stuff like that. Not everything, but there's enough that if you sent me back, he'd just think I'm defective, because I chose to leave in the first place, and he'd probably do what he did to Twelve and try to make me have someone who has all the bits he'll like," you blurted it out quickly, watching as his expression got progressively darker, and suddenly feeling his insides absolutely  _squirmed. "-_ he'd probably try to turn his attention to someone else in the mean time, but he liked me when I was little, and he'd want to pass some of my qualities on. I know he was pretty disappointed with how I turned out, but he's resilient,".

 

Oh, God. Negan feels a wave of nausea hit him before he even has a hope of controlling it, yes, he's come across some sick bastards in his time, but it's the level of detail that's making him vaguely sick, and it's the fact he can read between the lines that makes this worse. Payton starts young,  _very_ young, apparently - and the choice of wording again -  _defective -_ it's so awfully robotic and sets off a "not safe" alarm in his head that he's not sensed in a while. He can actually pinpoint the  **exact** moment in time when he'd last felt something like that go off on behalf of someone else. He'd been a high school gym teacher - he'd been tasked with having a last period lesson before sending the kids off home. He remembered seeing a rather unscrupulous looking man trying to convince one of his smaller, more petite and admittedly friendless students that he'd been sent to pick her up in place of her dad. Yes, her father had known the man - no, he hadn't been sent to collect her.

 

He remembers going borderline furious at the man and very barely controlling it before essentially banning him off the grounds and getting his license plate from the CCTV cameras later on.  _That_ was the last time this feeling had been awakened, this  _oh god, what a fucking creep_ sort of feeling. The kind of revulsion he'd felt when community hopping and having children offered up to him and sexual violence was simply permitted enabled the same kind of disgust, but that had been  _personal_ because they'd tried to pull  _him_ into that and engage it. This was different, in that he was just hearing about it, but the  _detail_ was just squirm-inducing.

 

"No, he's sick," Negan corrected harshly, and his tone was so biting that you flinched on his lap, sending that needling feeling of regret again before he banished it as quickly as it'd come. The sociopath was at least, a lot better at monitoring his emotions, controlling the ones he  _did_ feel, or at the very least, maintaining a controlled veneer.

 

Your attitude felt like it was chipping at it slightly.

 

"He'd use you as a baby oven, kill you, then raise his own child to fuck it. That's what you're saying, right? That's what you're fucking telling me right now, right? That's sick, that's  _so_ fucking sick, and I've met some real scumfucks in these past couple of years. I've been knocking around Virginia for a fucking while and I thought I saw it all but what you're telling me right now. It is  _wrong._ I'm not fucking sure if anyone told you this or if you've even been around anyone in their right fucking mind to begin with, but I'm telling you - it's  _wrong._ Do you understand what I'm telling you?" his tone fluctuates as he tries to control his visceral revulsion and distaste towards Payton, lest you misread it for something directed at yourself.

 

You looked at Negan oddly, you didn't know him very well at all, but he sounded terribly sure of himself. He spoke in a very authoritative voice that made you want to instinctively nod your head and believe he's right, and well, he could be? Twelve's own pressure to remain  _perfect_ and make a perfect child to take her own place in a few years had been what  _killed her._ You remembered struggling to reconcile how this could ever be right when Troy had spoken of it once after a trying night with his father, and hated that this was what "normal" constituted in your world. It never felt right.

 

Maybe because it was never normal?

 

You feel your head start to hurt as the leather-clad man casually shatters your skewed perceptions of the world and it's enough to make you hang your head and suddenly feel eighty years older than you truly are.

 

"I think so sir-I mean, Negan - " barely remembering to correct yourself as he bored into your skull with those dark, intimidating, tunnelling eyes of his.

 

 _"I knew they were a fucking cult,"_ he muttered under his breath, sure, he'd heard some people even compare the Saviors to that same word - and maybe aspects of life there were cult-like, but they were nothing like  _that._ The Sanctuary was his attempt at making a society and the earliest societies were founded under the hand of religion and worship and a sense of shared ethics, he tried to provide that, but instead of a God, placed himself at the centre. Yes, it played into the man's  _tremendous_ ego, but nobody could say he was doing it for selfish reasons, because at the heart of it, running a compound of seventy hardened killers and ruffians and trying to build a healthy society that sprawled over several settlements was a  _lot_ to burden on one man's shoulders, no matter how broad and strong they are. It would have been easier for him not to bother.

 

Or be a follower instead of a leader.

 

"You're not going back there," he says after a moment, before gently urging you off of his lap.  "Come on, enough of this depressing shit. I'm going to personally introduce you to my wives. It's about time you see where you'll be working and staying - it's a lot better than this lonely place," he says, switching back to his deceptively gentle tones.

 

He misses the look of quiet contemplation on your face.

 

Part of you was still wondering if Negan was really like this, or just pretending to be better than he was.

 

 _It would be so nice if he wasn't pretending,_ you thought, quietly pattering behind him in your little dolly shoes without a word of protest.

 

Dare to dream?

 

 

 


	4. Pleasure

 

He succeeded in making you feel small, without really intending to. Negan stood behind you like a tall shadow and his large hand easily swallowed your shoulder and some of your bicep as he introduced you to the swath of women. The first thing that you notice is the thick tenseness that hung in the air, followed with utter wariness and faint disinterest. You're decent at reading a room, even if your social skills aren't up to par, it's one of those things that's necessary to survive. If you couldn't read Payton's mood at any given time, you could have been in for a world of hurt. These six women are all on the taller side, but definitely when compared to you. They have slender, shining legs and any exposed skin looked sleek in contrast with glossy, dark, black dresses that they all seemed to don like uniform. Their legs make your stubby, short ones feel like drumsticks by comparison, with your thighs too thick and your calves too bandy, bony and weak, your skin too stretched and too flawed. It's no wonder you have such a negative reception when you offer your body if this is what the leader of the Sanctuary has to choose from. You'd have to find some other way to ingratiate yourself with him to keep yourself safe - so far, the plan was to do whatever he asked, and do it  _exceedingly_ well. 

 

The other thing you notice, besides their flawlessness, is the positively glacial reception you receive. There's a few curious looks, but it's mostly placid indifference. He quibbles over your name for a moment, noting aloud that you don't know, or don't remember your name, because you'd been with "the worst sort," since you were a child and so any "strangeness" should be treated with kindness and delicacy. It's actually surprising to you that Negan goes as far as to tell his wives to be nice to you, you're not sure if anyone's done that before.

 

"-she'll attend all of your needs, because I'm  _such_ a caring husband," he smiles, like he's made a joke, or at least on some level, recognises the tension in the boudoir for what it is. He's a lot of things, but he's not delusional - he's keenly aware of what his wives think of him, all he can do is give them a good standard of living - to make up for whatever they were sacrificing to agree to being in his harem.

 

"And I'm sure you'll all make her feel welcome," you shrink at his expectant words, they come from a good place, but it was never good to obligate someone to like someone else. 

 

 _I'll just stay out of their way,_ you think - while Negan ushers you away from the living room to where you'll be staying. He's intimately familiar with the layout and the rooms for obvious reasons, so he knows which rooms are taken and which aren't, and leads you to the smallest out of the entire building. Some rooms weren't always bedrooms, some had to be converted and have a bed-frame and mattress thrown in, and this was one them. It was once a small storage space, but now it has a single bed in it, the first of the rooms not to have double, and was more for emergency purposes - if he eventually had so many wives he was out of places to put them short of extending the boudoir or moving to a larger property.

 

It has a window, a tiny dresser and the bed taking up most the space by the wall, two people can stand in the room but no more than that. It's very modest and probably a step down from the apartment complex you'd been in previously, where you had a decent amount of space and all of it to yourself.

 

"If you'd like something bigger, there's another room left," Negan said as an afterthought, sure, if he had another wife it'd be a problem, but he didn't - so it wasn't, meaning he could offer it you now and worry about the future if the future necessitated it. 

 

The fact he's even asking you what you want, when you're basically a willing hostage, is utterly surprising to you. You're not used to having what you want, you just accept what you're given. Negan stared down at you as you widened your eyes and shook your head quickly, not wanting to push your luck or seem ungrateful.

 

"No, this is fine," you said quickly - a bit too quickly, and as though reading your thoughts, he just smiled a little.

 

"It's a bit small, you can change if you want," he's curious as to how deeply submissive your nature is, and then thinks briefly on how much makeup, skincare and general tat ends up strewn all over the rooms of his various wives and littering their dressers and cannot help but think you're going to run out of space quite quickly, once you build up some more stuff.

 

"It's okay, thanks," you murmur quietly, ignoring a faint lower pain in your gut from standing for so long, your fingers subconsciously balling up some of your jersey around your abdomen. "I'm small," - you stated, matter-of-factly. Your body just hurt and ached, it had since the day Troy bathed you delicately before bundling you away into the night. It hurt a little during the time you had spent in the Sanctuary, but you'd been mostly resting in the apartment or with the doctor, passed out, that you actually  hadn't noticed much. This was the longest you'd been on your feet in a while and the dull pain makes you wince. it's a subtle movement, but Negan catches it and mistakes it for silent, shy displeasure.

 

"You sure you won't need more room for your things?" he's referencing your original set of clothes -rags- he'd called them, but you weren't even wholly sure where those had ended up since your stay with Dr Carson, and gave him that blithely innocent look. Negan's giving you another out, another opportunity to speak up just to see if you would, but you don't.

 

"I don't have any things," you said, plainly like it was obvious, before glancing down at your clothes and shrugging. "Just these, and um - those groceries that Dwight brought down back in the pantry in the apartment,".

 

Maybe it's how you said it or how you hold yourself, or both, but Negan finds the phrases lingering in his mind.

 

_It's okay, thanks. I'm small._

 

_I don't have any things._

 

He leans back in that cocky, self-assured manner that he does, grinning uncomfortably as he's not really sure how to express this faint, needling emotion that he's feeling. He was never good with them, and losing his wife had made it worse, so this just felt like he'd dusted off a long sealed Pandora's box of emotions. Still. It rings in his mind. Small. Thirteen. Teen.

 

Teeny. 

 

Teeny-Tiny.

 

 _Perfect,_ Negan muses, he finally has a perfect, and much less dehumanising name for you, which is still derivative and not too far from what you've been called all of these years.  _Thirteen, our Teeny-Tiny... cos she's so... teeny-tiny._  

 

"God-damn!" Negan chortles "-that should have gone without saying, huh? Silly me," he shakes his head "-don't worry, you'll have things soon enough, a lot, if you do as your told and play your cards right. We reward good work here," again, he finds himself strangely consoling "-you'll want for nothing,".

 

You just look at him oddly when he says that, and slowly move past him into the small bed and sit on it. It barely dips under your weight until you give it a little test bounce and give Negan what you hope is a reassuring smile. The pain in your lower gut seemed to release slightly, but not by much. It's a good enough bed, if a little strong because nobody had slept in it much. Glancing around, it was mostly barren with only a fair few bits and bobs in, which Negan had unceremoniously dumped in quite a few of the rooms when initially planning his 'boudoir' and simply called it 'Girl Shit' - until his wives accumulated things to their own tastes.

 

Still, said "girl shit" was more shit than you'd ever been afforded and so immediately your eyes fall to something that is halfway squished between the bed and the wall. Taking it out, you see that it's a pastel green - though now slightly grey and mouldy looking, teddybear. It's actually quite big once you pull it out from its confines, it's half the size of your torso and you could easily rest your head on his fuzzy stomach. He had one glass eye that was a deep obsidian colour and was missing the other all together, but instantly, you fell in love with the thing. It's not that you had any particular yearning for it, but the kind of deprivation and treatment you'd had from Payton in your younger, formative years had made the mere sight of a toy seem like a novelty to you. The kids you looked after didn't even really get toys, all they had were some sticks and imagination, plus some things to colour with. 

 

"Is this mine too?" your voice drops like you're scared to ask him questions, but you're still staring the at the bear as you hold it out from your chest.

 

You're so mesmerised by a shitty, mouldy little bear that again, he feels like you've undersold the terribleness of Alpha Centauri, or at least left some things out.

 

"Everything in the room is yours, doll," he said reassuringly, eyebrow raised.  "Free of charge, like you said - you don't have any things, so lets move to change that,"  he watches as you hold the unwashed thing close to your torso protectively, because holy shit, in-your-20s or not, you couldn't remember the last time you had a toy. In some ways, you missed a lot of milestones because of Payton because he'd had you from such a young age, so in a way, some parts of you still lingered and yearned for your wasted childhood, and that is why you sometimes seemed so much younger than you were.

 

"You'll be earning points soon enough anyway. Oh - and someone will be down to take a list from you - shit you'll need to get leatherworks up and running, yeah?" he'd probably send Arat, he wasn't massively keen on sending men anywhere near his boudoir. You nod, but you aren't looking at him, your fingers are delicately going through the worn-out bear fur and pressing the indentation left by the missing glass eye.

 

_Maybe the people here really are different, or Negan is, at the very least?_

 

 _"_ "I can start it now, if there's any stationary. I'd need to know how many people you'd expect me to output for, or if it's a person by person basis, so I can do the math on materials and things," you said, snapping yourself out of your bear-induced daze, but keeping it nestled to your breast. It's strange hearing you talk so matter-o-factly whilst looking so remarkably childish that for a moment, Negan feels a little bit thrown, before entering the tiny space himself and effortlessly pulling out an empty notebook and a dark red pen. Girls and diaries went together like mac 'n cheese, so it's no surprised it's lumped in with miscellaneous "Girl Shit," when decorating the boudoir. He hands it to you and you take it, still not letting the bear go as you do - he leaves Lucille leaning against the doorway.

 

"You'll get orders for body armour on a one by one basis, I don't want you having to waste material. General clothing and shoeing is up to you, but I'll give you some time to figure it out, Marshall's an allocations kinda guy. You'll meet him soon, he'll be making sure you have everything you need to get up and running,"

 

"You'll also need to send them down so I can measure them," you said, almost a little shyly. Negan's already thinking he doesn't want his average runners getting kitted out too extensively until they've proven they're worth the investment, but his generals and his guards - now, they could definitely use some body armour. Half the time they're prancing around with their jean jackets and bullet vests open and you'd be lucky to find them with a shirt on underneath as their lazy method of beating the heat or simply out of laziness in general. It's all a bit unprofessional, especially in comparison with The Kingdom, and Negan would be damned if he'd be unshined by a bunch of adults playing play-pretend.

 

"Just focus on armour for one, I don't want you to bite off more than you can chew. I want to see your work for myself before any tall orders," of course, Negan's actually seen Alpha Centauri armour on their runners before, but didn't know you were responsible for it - he wants to see if it really is all down to you, and if you're as capable as you claim, but one look at you tells him that he wants to believe you're not a liar. That you're as small, and sweet as you maintain. "Details later, just figure out what roughly you need, anything else, we'll get," again, he's more reassuring than he expects himself capable of.

 

"Okay," you said quietly, scribbling some things down in neat, looping handwriting. It catches his attention slightly, for some reason he expected it to be disjointed and childish, like you, so he's pleasantly surprised when it isn't. The work of your hands was one of few things Payton actually liked, ugly though they were in their masculine size and their overlong fingers that made you seem utterly  _spiderlike_ to the man, he had always valued your craft and the graceful creations they made. It was perhaps, the only thing that Payton ever really respected you for.

 

"Sherry's going to show you anything that needs doing while you're home. This is home for you, now," said Negan, with a tone of finality that made you look up at him with an unreadable expression.

 

"Thank you Negan," you sound out awkwardly, barely stopping yourself from calling him  _sir._

 

And that was that.

 

You would not see him for three days after.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The wives did not take to your presence as warmly as was told of them, mostly because you'd seemed to have earned boudoir privileges without actually doing anything. It's only when they see you scrubbing the floor at four in the morning, while their private camp stove simmers quietly with a hot breakfast waiting them, that they realise you're still working for points, and that your subservient role was very much not exaggerated by Negan. Sherry had to become accustomed to the feeling of someone cleaning up after her, but the other girls didn't seem to mind it so much, if anything, they got casually messier knowing that you'd pick it up.

 

You'd scrubbed about four wine stains out of the carpeting this week, and being that your life began and ended around serving those around you, you were also charged with washing and changing the sheets, despite knowing full well what occurred in them. Sherry would have protested being given such an awful job, but if you had any complaints, you hid them dutifully. Five days a week you were assigned to getting the leatherworks running under a hastily drawn up schedule by Marshall, and the other two days were exclusively dedicated to the wives, though when you got back from a long day of setting things up, you were still fully expected to honour your maid-like duties. 

 

What a shitty agreement, Sherry mused - watching as you came in with rather sore looking hands. The positive was, the leatherworks would be set up closely to the metalworks, so you always came back to the boudoir with a large, rosy-cheeked smile from having spent the day with Rodney. 

 

The third day into your time spent in the boudoir, the young, buxom woman finally approached you.

 

"Want some help?" she's holding a glass of dark, blood-coloured wine, her hip bent to one side as she casually dwarfs you with her leggy height. All you can do is quickly dart your head to your shoes - remembering your own mental promise to do your best to keep out of these women's ways. They don't seem like bad people, you think - but that uncomfortable tenseness you had been exposed to when Negan first brought you in here was something you didn't want to be apart of. It was suffocating and uncomfortable, these ladies all bound together through a mutual sense of emotional blackmail had left you feeling like you were on the outside looking in. You didn't really understand that they'd all given something up to be with Negan, because it was the price of keeping their loved ones in good shape, but it's something Sherry makes you very quickly privy too.

 

"I'm okay," you said, quietly refusing her as you began packing some things into a well-worn duffel bag you'd found under your bed. 

 

"I need to go check the smithy, I've got some new tools coming," you said quietly, wincing as you subtly placed a hand over your sagging jersey. "If you could get Misses Laverne to stop leaving her extensions on the floor, that would be good," you add shyly, not wanting to really cause much bad blood.

 

You looked a bit pathetic next to these statuesque, well-dressed women, and though it's a bit of a mean thought, it's hard not to have it pass through Sherry's mind.

 

Sherry snorted at your request, before nodding and giving you a small smile.

 

"Well I can't promise a miracle," she chuckled. In truth, she's dying to ask about your name, and the branding on your neck. All of the wives had been gossiping among themselves about it, but none had the gall to actually ask you, there's even a wondering thought that it might have been a Savior who'd done it, and that you were here to be kept safe. Sherry quickly dispels that one, she knows from hushed talks with Dwight exactly who you are and where you come from, which, isn't much information - but is better than nothing.

 

She's been noticing your winces of pain for a while now, because on the first night, you'd been in the bathroom for three hours, and on the second, in the small hours of the morning, she heard what sounded like noises of pained cries quietly seeping out from under the door. Sherry is almost positive none of the other wives have taken the time to notice, or if they have, they don't care, they just want to know if you're a threat or not - and are giving you a wide berth as they aren't certain if you're just Negan's eyes and ears inside of the boudoir when he isn't there. It's not an unreasonable assumption, but one good look at you and Sherry got a sharp sense that you're exactly as small and lost as you appear.

 

And so she finds herself pitying you.

 

"We have some Midol in the medicine cabinet," she said as smoothly as she could, you give her an odd look. What the hell was Midol? Medicine, you would suppose, but what for - anyone's guess really. At your clueless expression, Sherry's quick to elaborate - the fact she'd been prewarned of your oddness still hanging in the forefront of her mind as she does.

 

"For cramping, and...lady pains," she elaborated, before placing her free hand to her own lower stomach. "-You've been doing it a while, and I ah - I heard you in the bathroom," she wondered how exactly you were coping, if you really were menstruating, before taking a none too subtle glance at your shorts, but upon seeing them clean, felt a bit silly for just assuming you would be on your period, but she couldn't really figure out what else it might be. At the conflicted look on your face, mixed with open embarrassment, she quickly puts the cup of wine to one side on the mantle and gently pulls you into the hallway as one of the wives moved to the living room to lay on one of the comfier couches.

 

"Are you...?" she trailed off, but you just frowned and shook your head negatively. Still, Sherry thought it'd be wise to show you the medicine cabinet for the future, and the drawers where various feminine hygiene products lay. There's intimate body washes, creams for soreness and thrush (a rather embarrassing amount), birth controls - and different packages of pads and tampons. The sight of it makes you feel oddly ashamed, and you're not sure why, it's actually easier for you to talk about sex, disregard your own nudity and all sorts of things that would usually drive personal embarrassment, and yet a monthly bodily function that you cannot help is making you cringe with a misplaced sense of shame. Troy had kept track of your monthly blood, and it was with great embarrassment (and Payton's insistence) that you would have to approach him for any products to deal with it, so he could keep track of your fertility. It was humiliating. None of it had real good associations with you, but the idea of just being able to come up and grab what you need to take care of yourself is a foreign one, and you have to fight the urge to look stunned.

 

The pair of you are in the bathroom now, with the door open. Sherry sits on the edge of the tub after a look of careful consideration, looks up at you. This way, she's closer to your height, while you stand on the furry bathroom rug and stare at your shoes, cheeks burning. 

 

 _She's only like, what, a year or two younger than me?_ Sherry frowned as she looked at you - yet you seemed so much younger when you acted like this.

 

"We're both girls you know, you can talk about it," she said, as gently as she could manage. "I know you haven't made any friends here yet, but the others are still trying to figure out whether you're Negan's eyes and ears," Sherry decides to be blunt about it, and you almost double back with surprise, but keep yourself rooted and look back down at your feet, exuding a quiet lack of confidence. "But that doesn't mean you're alone, settling in, in a place like this is hard,".

 

"Why aren't you staying away from me then?" you ask bluntly, before wincing at how ungrateful you sound, like you're snubbing her olive branch. You truly don't mean to, and the look of apologia shows it on your face, but Sherry just smirks a little and waves it off.

 

"Because I trust Dwight when he says you're not a threat, you're about as clueless as you look," Sherry snorted.

 

Oh, Dwight - the blond guy who carried you here in the beginning, you don a questioning look but Sherry seems to realise her mistake, and sighs.

 

"But keep that between us, me and Dwight aren't really supposed to talk," you nod in confusion, but let her carry on. "But anyway, since I know better, and I made a promise to keep an eye on you, tell me what's going on. Why were you crying?"

 

Of course, she cannot be sure you were, she just assumes it from the staggered breathing and pained noises she'd heard, but your answer confirms it unwittingly. You usually aren't one to open up unless directly asked by someone in higher esteem than yourself, where it feels more like you've been interrogated, and sometimes even with Troy, opening up felt like a chore. You cannot remember if there was a time where you got to be woman-to-woman with anybody before, so part of you wants to be forthcoming, like she'd understand, but at the same time - it was just...embarrassing.

 

"Hurts," you admitted reluctantly, placing a hand on your lower gut before lowering it centimetre by centimetre with a cringe, unable to look Sherry in the face. You do your best to adjust despite the discomfort - the wives, surely they'd understand the great pains you went through, right? More than anybody else. The several seats of pleasure that you had agonised to learn at a young age and the devastation that Payton would wreak upon you - surely, even if this 'Negan' is much more good than what you're used to, surely they must have some idea? The kind of pain it left on a small body?

 

It's this that emboldens you to speak, even if it comes out mousy and riddled with shame.

 

"I usually don't get time to notice or have to walk around so much, I'm usually in one place and it would only hurt after I did day-time stuff," you glance at Sherry's face, searching for judgement as you spoke. "-My..." you're not sure what to call Payton when talking about him with others, talking about Alpha Centauri with people at the Sanctuary never seemed to work out well. They always looked at you like you were some sort of sad, miserable alien. "Keeper, Payton - he um, he was always a bit.... rough, but you probably know what that's like. It just hurts. This is the longest time I haven't had to perform for a man and so I can actually feel all of my down-there aches," you blush.

 

_Fuck._

 

Sherry isn't sure what Pandora's box she's opened, but she's careful to keep any horror or disgust from her face, and just silently wishes that she'd brought her wine up with her. Or the whole fucking bottle. She already got the sense that she didn't like where exactly this conversation was going. She just senses she's not going to like it, even the wives tastefully refrain from discussing what they actually  _do_ with Negan because none are particularly happy with the nature of the arrangement at all, even if they're consenting to it. Your bluntness after being so meek is therefore surprising, and so she just steels herself for what comes out of your mouth.

 

"Down-there...aches," she sounded out slowly and awkwardly, only for you to nod. "Does it hurt when you...go to the bathroom?" it's a disgustingly personal thing to even ask, but as your face goes bright red and you nod once, she sighs. It's unlikely it's a sexually transmitted disease, though it's certainly a possibility, more likely it's probably a UTI, but she's not a doctor. You'd have to go to Carson. She asks you a few more awkward questions, enough that you find yourself with your shorts and underwear at your ankles, and Sherry shutting the bathroom door with a cringe.

 

She couldn't believe she'd wandered herself into this position, it's actually pretty personal and rather disgusting, but there's something about that doe-eyed look and malnourished demeanour that drives Sherry's pity enough in that she's feeling strangely - almost parentally - responsible for you. It's not like you had anyone else.

 

"No itching, or anything?" again, Sherry isn't a doctor, but she doesn't  _visually_ see anything wrong or out of the ordinary, but all you can do is blush at the close inspection of your lady parts by someone you don't know very well at all. There's no itching, soreness, redness, rashes or anything unsightly that the woman can see, but Carson could probably confirm. He just didn't want to be so entirely invasive while you were knocked out, and at the very least wanted your consent. If he was ordered to do a pelvic exam without permission from you, with heavy heart he would, but he was an ethical man, and nobody in the Sanctuary - even Negan - dared supposed to tell a medic how exactly to do their job or conduct a physical. It's no wonder then, that he hasn't picked it up, especially as you remained semi-feral and not very open despite answering any questions lobbed at you.

 

"No, it just hurts, it didn't always hurt either, and I only ever performed for Payton, so I'm not sure why now," you say, as Sherry makes you get dressed again before unlocking the bathroom door. 

 

"Then it's probably just a urinary thing, but I'm not the doctor. You should go to the health centre," there's too many unanswered, uncomfortable questions - and the word 'performed' sticks in her head. Not even the wives refer to their conjugal responsibilities so callously and coldly, but yours sounds positively transactional, and suddenly, she feels a lump in her throat as she realises that consent might not be a factor where you come from. It's not like it surprises her of course, but the jarring realisation of not everywhere adhering to Negan's rule against all forms of sexual violence suddenly made the woman quite nauseous.

 

Especially as you seemed to speak like you two had a kinship, but God, no. Negan was not one to abuse their bodies, he was practically reverent in his ministrations so they were not so disagreeable to it, even if they didn't like it. You, on the other hand? Seemed to be a lot more adapted to cruelty, and so the woman found herself swallowing her muted discomfort to question you further.

 

"When you say 'perform'...?" Sherry trails off, frowning.

 

Now you're confused, you're certain you and the wives do the same sorts of things, just for different people, and answer her like she'd asked you an incredibly silly question.

 

"The seven seats of pleasure? You know, what men like," you trailed off, only to be met with an utterly blank expression. You consider detailing a sex act, but already feel quite awkward, but the idea of a  _wife_ not knowing what you're talking about is utterly foreign to you. It's one of the first things that you're taught, when you express an interest in reading, you're given heavily explicit, detailed literature before being forced to put it into practice. You remember the aches coursing through your smaller body as you'd done it too. You'd been much too young and far less pliant then you were now, just trying to make it happen. 

 

"Uhm, I'm not sure I know what that is," said Sherry slowly, only for you to frown.

 

"But you're a _wife_ ," you said pointedly in confusion, before shaking your head and shedding the sense of shame that once held you. Sex felt easier to talk about, it was much less shameful than a bodily function you couldn't control. "One of the first things I was taught was how to best bend my body for my keeper's pleasure. I thought you'd have to do something like that. I had to have it mastered by the time I was sixteen," you're practically flabbergasted by Sherry's blank look. She'd had sex and plenty of it,  _good sex_ too, but the idea of 'bending the body' sounded a lot more arduous than what she was picturing. You describe a position, the one which makes your head and neck ache the most - the  _spidermonkey -_ which demands tremendously of your ability to keep upright while keeping all of the blood flowing to your skull while being hammered from above and truthfully, it sounded exceedingly painful. Sherry was actually blushing by the end of your description, because you'd uttered it so clinically, like she should  _know it_ and know how to contort her body so uncomfortably at the behest of a man.

 

"Honey that's - that's... not.." she trailed off, it sounded freaky, and probably amazing, but incredibly demanding, and then finally her mind screeches to a halt.

 

_Sixteen?_

 

"Hold on, how long have you been....performing?" she asked, even though it's not her place.

 

"Since I was twelve," you shrugged "-when I had my first... bleed," you said awkwardly.

 

Sherry almost wants to laugh hysterically at how  _that_ makes you awkward but the detailed act of horrific contortion you'd described to please some (horrible sounding) man  _did not._

 

"We don't... I don't... do that kind of thing, and neither should you have, no wonder you're in so much pain, especially if this is the first break you've ever had from it! Your lady parts are like a muscle, they can survive a  _lot_ but you cant expect to put yourself through so much without pause and not expect to feel a little funny adjusting to a life without it. Fucking --" Sherry doesn't swear often, but she can't help it. "-Hell, I'm going to walk you to the health centre, okay? Get you checked out."

 

You're not certain why she's so shell-shocked, or what kind of servicing she and the wives do if not the kind of things you knew about, but you shrug, it's not for you to judge other people's sex. What surprises you, are the things Sherry chooses to ask about. Like, how rough is he with you? Do you get any breaks? Do you get to tell him not to if you're too sore or too tired? (A ridiculous notion in itself! You actually scoff at her, like  _she's_ the stupid one) and what age you'd started, and how long for. By the end of it, the woman feels positively ill.

 

"What's it like then, for  _you_ I mean. I'm sure it's all well and good for this Payton guy, but you?" she knows you have no breaks, it sounds like Payton would keep going even if he tore something, she knows your body is tried and tested and forced to contort unnaturally at the behest of someone else's pleasure, someone who, for all intents and purposes, often imagined you as someone better looking than you were, and treated your body with none of the reverence that Sherry and the other wives were familiar with. 

 

You even thought it was normal, and that, that was just... sad.

 

"It's... rough, and..." you look down at your feet, it feels bad to admit this, you wouldn't even admit it to Troy when he asked, and most nights he just  _assumed_ you'd be in pain, and most nights, he was utterly correct anyway. Enough that you never went into detail, and he wouldn't ask much, because it'd probably break his own heart if he knew the extent of the man's cruelty. Payton was off, and sick in the head, but Troy never wanted to know how much. Never ever.

 

"Cruel. I didn't like it much...and sometimes, when I'm on my feet, I can feel the pain inside me while I stand,".

 

Sherry swallows the lump in her throat, and quietly walks you to the health centre.

 

She was going to have to talk to Negan about those people you came from.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There were muffled moans reverberating in the walls, accompanied with rhythmic thuds. You lay curled up with your moulded green bear and sigh - gently running your fingers over the dent of its missing eye. What a day you'd had! You had been hours behind on your leatherworks because of that impromptu trip to the health centre, but Carson was nothing but a gentleman about what he had to do, which was weird enough. You had never had someone treat such intimate parts of you so clinically yet delicately, and Sherry had even stayed, when asked. 

 

Carson confirmed it to be a UTI, with an uncomfortable expression - quietly filing the information away with his own suspicions, and packed you off with antibiotics, which would easily dispel your small problem. It was just a urinary tract infection, but you felt a dull ache as you curled up in bed, trying to block out the noises.

 

Of course, you'd expected this when Negan said you'd tend his wives, but you hadn't expected them to be so  _loud._

 

 _"Sorry Terence,"_ you whisper to the bear, it seemed right naming it a t-name, after Troy, but actually naming him that would be too hurtful a reminder of him, and you still didn't know how to properly code and sort your emotions. Today had been a strange day, ending with Negan finally visiting. 

 

You didn't see him, of course. You'd cleaned and put fresh sheets in all the rooms for the night, and merely caught the sight of him heading into Misses Laverne's room, confirmed by the right of his barbed wire bat leaning up beside the door, against the wall, signalling its joint occupancy with the wives' shared husband.

 

 _"They're a little loud, huh?"_ you murmur, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feelings that being privy to such intimate, sexual noises made you feel. Whatever it was these wives did which was different to you, it sounded like in the moment, it wasn't so bad, as you cannot recall yourself ever making such sounds from someone else's ministrations. Payton was a fan of silence. Quiet. You had always found the noises  _exciting_ and emotional, but sex was so often transactional in your life, that it is no wonder that you're doe-eyed and surprised when you hear the sounds.

 

There's a squeal, and then silence, and so you can finally close your achingly tired eyes.

 

You wondered, idly, what it'd take to make such a sound leave your own lips, or if they're faking. It certainly doesn't sound fake. 

 

 _"They really don't know how much worse it could be, do they?"_ you're not sure if it's jealousy. Much of your body is actually relieved to have a break from constant, unwieldy, painful sex acts, and yet, you cannot help but feel resentful. Maybe it's because of what you learned from Sherry? They get to say no, and their treatment is never so cruel as what you described, and expected as normal. Yes, that had to be it.

 

 _"Those stupid, lucky girls,"_ you mumble, before falling into troubled sleep.

 

Stupid. Lucky. Girls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still aching through writer's block and some of my keys are broken, so it sucks to write with this usb keyboard, but it's better than nothing I guess. clinical depression too, all of it is just killing me right now
> 
> funfact "the seven seats of pleasure" and other assorted explicit texts mentions are various incarnations of karma sutra teachings. Boy. This got dark huh? Poor Reader, man. Her version of normal is so fucked it isn't even funny.


	5. All Good Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R&R if you can, even if it's just "hated it" or "more", any input is appreciated. Y'know, random thought, but Reader (however dark this is) still feels oddly bun-bun inspired in parts (does that make Negan 'Flame King'? Jesus) anyway enjoy. Thanks to my homie Selkie for faithfully sticking with my works :)

 

 

The next morning, the boss had left before you could catch sight of him, and it was time for you to resume your new laundry list of duties. Downstairs, in the hallway, there is a hanging clock. It's strange having such a concrete sense of time, but ever since you'd arrived at the Sanctuary, you learned that everybody had a strict schedule that they adhered to. The entire compound ran an incredibly tight ship, but it seems with the gratuitous amount of leniency and treatment that had been bestowed upon you, you hadn't been very aware of this until your fourth day. You'd taken to sleeping naked again, just so that you would spare your jersey and drawstring shorts from having to rack up with sweat too quickly. Having only one pair of clothes wasn't a problem you were used to complaining about, because you only ever wore clothes for day duties, and at night, they'd be stripped from you anyway, and that's when they'd probably get the dirtiest. You'd do your laundry with everyone else's, and that'd be that. The women of the boudoir only seemed to have skimpy wear, besides their beautiful black a-line dresses. It was mostly bikini wear, things which were mostly straps and little in the way of material, or lingerie. It turned out the dresses were the classiest things they had unless they requested more clothes, but not knowing when Negan would besiege them, they opted to wear the dresses so they'd remain ready, and still visually pleasing when he arrived.

 

That meant that Sherry didn't exactly have anything to lend you that you would be comfortable putting on your kind of body.

 

You were also in charge of the wives' demands, and left a cursive note on the pantry to slide anything they needed directly to you under the door to look at after a work day, and take to whoever you supposed had to deal with that (maybe Marshall? Probably Arat, since she sorted your leatherworks list out...). It's a bonus to being one of Negan's chew-toys - getting whatever you wanted without having to work for it, though they were free to leave and fetch something from Allocations themselves, now that they had you to do that errand, most of them sent you. Amber, most notably, seemed to be the quickest to treat you as "the Help." In Sherry's opinion, she'd always acted like something out of  _Real Housewives -_ and just her saccharine, expectant nature explained exactly why she was a wife and not a worker. Firstly, she is seductive, but she's entirely used to being given everything well before the Collapse happened, and expected it well after. She'd been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and fully expected to keep it.

 

Needless to say, Amber treated you like a bit of dirt on the end of her perspex heel, but you didn't mind so much. That was to be expected, the wives sans Sherry still don't seem to trust you, but Sherry seems to be an "alpha" of sorts in terms of the women there, so once her apparent friendship with you became known, Tanya, Laverne and the others acted marginally less frosty to you. You still think you preferred working life more. There was something confidence-inducing about having a craft, a craft that you're  _good at_ \- and finally, the leatherworks was at least operational enough to create a sample. Plus, it distracted you from the dull passing pains that coursed in your lower body while the antibiotics did their job.

 

_I must exceed expectations._

 

_I must._

 

You'd been obsessing over what you would do when you finally had the tools you needed made by Rodney. They didn't have much in the way of the kind of specialised threads that could withstand leather working that you would prefer, without being so taught that they'd cut through it, or so soft that they'd break from harsh treatment. They were having some trouble actually attaining some of the materials to work with, tools it seemed, weren't an issue. You knew the theory of making fresh animal skin to leather, but that'd require an even bigger operation, but you detailed it for Marshall anyway.

 

"It'll be a workshop at this rate, you might need a few more extra hands," said the Savior thoughtfully, tapping his pen against a clipboard in thought as he watched you work. You were just happy to be closer to Rodney - the only friend besides maybe-Sherry that you had made in this strange place. You were hellbent on ingratiating yourself with the boss in a good kind of way, because the idea of leaving a place where you were fully autonomous and  _actually owned things_ was too good to pass up. You'd finally had a taste of decent, human, treatment and so you had every intent of sinking your teeth in as deeply as you could and never getting into the purview of Alpha Centauri again.

 

"Maybe," you agree quietly, knowing how long it took to produce a single piece of body armour from scratch as one person, even if you worked every single day for twenty hours, it would still be a bit of an immense order if you were working with less than you'd had at Alpha Centauri. Still, you're not sure if you'd be very good at teaching other people what to do, but Rodney smiles encouragingly at you, wiping some soot from his face and incidentally, spreading more that he didn't notice. The continuous clanging of metal ceased as he wiped his hand on a trusty hand rag before he came over to see what you were doing.

 

You use Marshall and Rodney's measurements to get a general feel for a sample work - and found that male wrists were just a bit thicker than expected, but you'd never made something this small before that wasn't a sheathe of some kind. Marshall, a tall, gangly sort of man who reminded you of a willow tree with his stalking legs and waif-like body, the polar opposite to Rodney's wide frame,  gave you a healthy guess for how much material you'd need to make a one-size fits most pair of gloves. 

 

"We haven't got any orders for you yet, I don't think word has got up yet that we're operational, so you can call it a day if you like," said Marshall kindly, making you shake your head.

 

"I'm gonna make a sample piece - that's why I needed all of your hands," you said, a bit shy about the revelation, being that nobody asked you to do it. You were just dying to actually do something other than make more work for Rodney to do - like more tool orders or workstation building. There's only a finite amount of things you can do before you can't really do much else without more things to work with - and to top it off, you didn't have any of your reference materials. You'd only been there an hour or two before Marshall revealed you wouldn't be getting anything until the end of the week - which you had off to service the wives - as it would be when Negan visits most often, hence your rota giving you time off that most Saviors do not get.

 

"That's a good idea," Marshall praised your initiative, and watched a healthy glow wash over your face, you had enough resources for a sample piece, and it would keep you busy. Marshall also got a break from doing pure allocations work, which consisted mostly of pencil pushing, collecting lists off of people, and yelling at the maintenance workers responsible for cataloguing the items that runners bring into the compound.

 

Personally, Marshall wasn't ready for his little break to end quite just yet.

 

"You're still in those clothes?" said Rodney suddenly, making you blink owlishly - before you realised Rodney would take off his clothes and put them in a small, clean area and don a work outfit that would get covered in soot. That said, his normal clothes often suffered too, despite his best efforts - he could say most of them were in various states of work-related dirtiness that came with being a blacksmith, but he cannot help but notice you're still in those drawstring shorts and baggy jersey that matched your namesake.

 

"These are the only clothes I have, I don't have any points to spend I don't think, and I don't want to ask for more free things," you said humbly, making Rodney's brow furrow. There was something docile and submissive about you that made him very aware of why you were suddenly carted out of his apartment and given the boudoir. The boss wasn't a fan of his Saviors getting taken advantage of in any way, and there were certainly some unscrupulous figures about, and if he'd taken that much notice of you - it is no surprise that he sequestered you away to one of the safest places in the Sanctuary besides his own home.

 

"You're allocations, can you get her some work clothes and write it off as a leather works expense? I mean, it would be," said Rodney hurriedly, not wanting to test the other Savior. Marshall, however, seemed to agree - mostly because he kept catching glimpses of the fading purple bruising that cascaded down one side of your neck and collarbone and it made him uncomfortable in how distracting it was.

 

"I can try to rustle up something, you can't really have only one pair of clothes, hold on," Marshall walks over to you, and tugs at the back of your jersey so he can read the sizing on the label, making you flinch. It's not that you don't mind people touching you, most of the time you're quite doll-like and acquiesce with ease, but you didn't expect the man to do it like that without warning, and Rodney didn't miss the body language.

 

"Right that seems a little big, so I'll size one down and see what's been brought in. I'm not a fashionista though, so don't expect miracles," Marshall warned, before slipping away.  Rodney turned back to you, he wanted to know why you hadn't really been given enough thought that you weren't kitted out with the basics, it seemed that even that plump, squishy and rather annoying head engineer they'd pilfered from Alexandria - Eugene - was much more accommodated for than you. However, Rodney had also heard him bossing around some other Saviors earlier about sloppy casing work done on their shambler fence outside. He was responsible for having molten metal case the walkers, so they wouldn't tear themselves asunder so easily, so Rodney had been charged with suddenly melting down massive vats of metal on a whim. 

 

He didn't like the guy, but he probably worked up the balls to ask for things he wanted, whereas you were too small, and too humble.

 

Rodney felt like he had to take care of you, at least a little bit.

 

"Shorty, if you want something in a place like this, you need to learn to ask for it, okay?" said Rodney, as gently as he could manage. He is careful not to wipe any soot on you as he places a hand on your shoulder, being sure that it wasn't the bruised side. He'd seen it the first day he'd met you, but felt it too rude to ask. Maybe a Savior a done it, he'd known for sure that Negan hadn't - he wasn't that kind of a guy, but the others weren't, and maybe that's why you were getting such different care.  He watched as your delicate hands began cutting through tan brown leather, before dampening it and readying it for incising and carving with some of the tools he'd made. Rodney was more than curious to see what you would create with the odd little tool blueprints you'd given him. He couldn't really fathom what all of them could be for, besides stabbing things in different ways.

 

You worked the toolkit the way a professional diner might work a cutlery set, the kind that came with more then three kinds of knife, fork and spoon. The workbench itself is a long, wooden set that had been pinched from a dilapidated hardware store, different to the large slab of metal that Rodney hammered away at, doubling it as a makeshift anvil as well as a workstation. He watched you tie up your long, dark hair with a strip of material as a makeshift hairband to keep it out of your face, and observed the way that your fingers glided across the table.

 

"Who taught you how to do this?" Rodney asked, unable to bare the silence of you quietly working. You almost flinch in surprise, like you'd somehow forgotten the large mans presence. There's knives and oddly shaped tools he'd had to craft of varying shapes and sizes, and you seemed to have ascribed each one of them a very specific job, picking them up only for certain tasks even if one knife appeared to be perfectly suited to multiple - you had it down to a science. 

 

"Myself," you said shortly, before leaning forward with intense concentration. You pick up an odd little tool - it's not one Rodney uses often, so he's happy to lend you it. It's not like he does intricate works much, but it seems you do - and so you're now in possession of a jeweller's loupe, a small magnifying lens that hangs over one eye and magnifies intensely so as to view the quality of freshly cut diamonds and jewels, or inspect fakes by picking out flaws that aren't so visible to the naked eye. It isn't necessary - but you're hellbent on making sure every minutia of these gloves are flawless as you emboss the material. "Well, my group moved around a lot. One of those places we went was a museum. It had a lot of cool old stuff in there, like looms and presses and stuff we used to use way back before electricity," you explained.  

 

"They had a whole hall on the history of leather working and armour, and how old timey people used to do it, and old books in glass cases. New ones, too - in the gift shop area," you smiled absently - that was probably one of the nicer times you'd ever had in Alpha Centauri, knowledge you could just  _feed upon_ for days, and days. No security, no alarms, no nothing - you held textbooks in your hands which had been hundreds of years old and turned them over with small slips of paper lest your fingers be too abrasive to the touch and they might crumble in your hands.  The tools, though rusted and old, once cleaned, were not brittle save for few, and you'd even been able to use those yourself. In any other time, it would have been an absolute travesty, using historical artefacts in the way that you had, but in the end of days, priorities change - and there is nobody left to care.

 

"Shit," Rodney uttered "-I think I know that museum, there's only one like it in the state. I used to go there when I was little," he admitted, eyes wide. "-I don't remember much of it, I thought it was kind of boring, but - shit, I guess there's nobody to stop us touching all those things behind glass cases and cloth barriers now, huh?".

 

"Guess not," you shrug, frowning with intensity.

 

"-What's the point of leaving history there if it's dead with nobody to appreciate it anyway? At least I learned something, like - what I'm doing now. I mean, I'm bastardising it a bit - I'm using a swivel knife right now but they probably used something duller in the Middle Ages. But some of the techniques I picked up - it's stuff that hasn't been around since 18th and 19th century, y'know? This way it at least gets to carry on. There's only survivors left, and without learning from the past, we're just going to keep going around in circles anyway. The past is a pretty good teacher, Roddy," you take pause to look up and smile. "They did fine without electricity and things, we've been doing it forever. No need to think we're above taking lessons from the people who didn't have the same privileges we did,".

 

Shit, delicate seeming or not - it's at this moment Marshall returns, and Rodney is utterly convinced you are far, far smarter than you look.

 

"People can only remember what they grew up with, and what they lost," said Rodney carefully "-not all of them are in a place where they can think to take lessons from people that far back in time. It's why the Kingdom is doing so well though, and why I'm doing what I do. Not saying we should abandon modern tech but, what you're doing is pretty smart, and kind of awesome,".

 

Huh, that's a word you've never had directed at you before, and so you're absolutely beaming under the praise.

 

"Wow, make out already why don't you, here you go shortass," said Marshall teasingly, before tossing down something denim bundled up with some white cloth. You finally take another break to see what he's brought you - what he dubbed your "work uniform" and expected you to be in. In truth, he just didn't have a lot of options that weren't too hot for the environment you're working under beyond tank tops or generic male-cut t-shirts which he isn't sure you'd appreciate or not. He doesn't know how little you're used to having, and that you'd gladly take anything he'd have to give, and so he comes back with a plain white shirt that's a little baggy seeming, and a blue denim dungaree-dress. 

 

"This is more than I expected, thank you," you manage, eyes wide as your fingers trace down the clothing. It's more than you'd ever had - something crisp, new, closer to fitting you and meaningfully picked, something not horrendous or ugly - you can actually feel your eyes get a little warm, even though it's a stupid thing to overreact over. Feeling like you need to fire back with something, but not having any kind of witticism to toss back at the Savior, searching your mind for a petty nickname but unable to summon the playful spitefulness to do so in the face of a gift, call him "Marshmallow," - because of how similar it is to his name. It elicits a laugh from both men, because you were clearly trying to match up to the banter, but your rather poor socialisation made your attempts a bit feeble, but not any less friendly.

 

The dungarees aren't really much of a dress in general, but technically a dress. A small gasp leaves you before you can stop it as you proudly brandish it over your head to get a full look at it - it probably wouldn't look anywhere so cute on you as it did in your hands right then and there, not with your unflattering body, but you were grateful all the same. Not waiting to find somewhere private, you go over to where Rodney has unceremoniously dumped his clean clothes and undress on the spot, making Marshall's eyebrows soar up in surprise and Rodney quickly avert his stare. 

 

"Fantastic," Marshall grins, which is Rodney's cue to look up. He cracks a smile when he sees it - the white shirt underneath is still a little loose - the cap sleeves were supposed to cling to the female form but instead, they sag loosely around your biceps, but the dungaree-dress makes you look a lot less shapeless, the apron-like denim straps actually come down in the right place and pull the chest piece up to hug your breasts - though you haven't quite buttoned the left one down right, as there's a sizeable twist in it, but doesn't correct it. You notice though, but it seems the left button is so loose that the dungaree strap likes to come undone - you'd fix it later, you mused, when you remember. So you leave it that way, half- supported on your shoulders and the lower half of it body-forming to your backside and upper legs.

 

"This was the closest to work overalls in your size, but at least you wont be boiling in them," he points out, eyes downcast to where it hugged your thicker thighs but showed too much of your bandier calves. You really didn't like how your body stored food in you, and how it grew, but the way Marshall and Rodney were smiling and giving you thumbs up - for a moment, you thought you looked downright  _passable._

 

"Lets chalk it up to a setup expense," Marshall smiled, and left you to work in peace for the rest of the day, occasionally wittering away to Rodney to wile away the hours.

 

Your happiness, needless to say, was short-lived and easily decimated as you stepped foot in the boudoir.

 

All good things, you thought with an internal sigh,  _must come to an end._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 It was a stupid thing to be happy about anyway. Having more than one set of clothes. Stupid. Minor. Dumb. More fool you, for thinking you didn't look too ugly in them. Even if clothes were beautiful and with the best will in the world, the second they adorned their body it's like you plummeted every good quality about them. That's why you'd never really gotten much back in your old group to begin with, as Payton would often bemoan that they were utterly  _wasted_ on you as justification for never quite giving you the extravagance his other pet projects prior to you ever had. It was a really stupid, petty thing - and the other dungaree strap didn't even like staying done and on your shoulders -  _it's like even the outfit wants to peel itself off me and run away. It would probably be happier as rags, if it could feel,_ you thought, staring down at your dolly shoes with sagging shoulders.

 

It all started when you knocked the door, realising it'd been locked from the inside - quite sensibly, as your apartment in your first days had been.

 

Amber answered.

 

Maybe she wasn't used to seeing you in clothes besides that well-loved jersey and the drawstring shorts, but she had a glass of champagne in her hand and a faint air of tipsiness, though her words were casually cold, and rude. You would stake your limbs on her being exactly the same if she  _wasn't_ slightly intoxicated.

 

"Wow, what did you come dressed as?" she snorted "-about time you got back, anyway, the bath tub needs a good scrub, the rims all gross."

 

Sherry, who caught the exchange from the open living room door, frowned and moved into the hallway, her tones deceptively calm. It's not that she particularly adores you or anything, but she is aware that she is your only lifeline in the boudoir, and for the past year, or since her arrival into the fold even, has  _not_ been able to deal with Amber's casual mean girl attitude. Some days it made for decent banter, but mostly it was agitating, and presented more tension for already emotionally bleak lives of those damned into the harem. 

 

"Amber, do you think you could manage not being a complete bitch for three minutes? All she does is clean up after you, and unlike most of us, she has to work out there. The least you can do is not insult her the second she comes in," her eyes wander over to you, and she looks you up and down appraisingly, making you narrowly uncomfortable before smiling genially. Tanya and Laverne look up the moment Sherry drops the b-word, and tensions rise in the building instantly.

 

"Ignore her, you look nice, she's just in a bitchy mood because there's no more champagne left," she said shortly, welcoming you inside. Amber narrows her eyes, and opens her mouth to say something in response, only for Sherry to grab your arm and pull you into the living room quickly, glancing at Tanya and Laverne, knowing that they were much less vocal in their dislike of Amber and her attitude, but wanting to nip her now escalating sense of entitlement since you'd been assigned as their servant.

 

"Girls, don't you think she looks nice?" she spoke over Amber's snark quite noticeably, as she mumbled to the effect of  _she doesn't just clean up after me, you guys are messy too, any way she's just the help, don't make it a big deal._ Basically, outlining you were not one of  _them_ and should not be expected to be treated with the same dignity and respect that the in-circle does.

 

Very suddenly, you realised you were a pawn in some horrible female hierarchy, and drew your shoulders up to your ears shyly, feeling your face burn under all of the scrutiny.

 

The slightly shorter but fuller figured woman with the black hair - Tanya, speaks up first.

 

"You look cute," she holds your stare "-very cute," - you blush scarlet and look away - you know it's just to undermine Amber and snub her attitude, but the unwarranted and frankly untrue praise has you blushing up a storm regardless. You feel like you're being used in a game here, and never have you wanted to become invisible so badly as you did right then.

 

"Yeah," pipes up Laverne, smiling genuinely at you for the first time before looking over at Amber "-so ditch the Real Housewives attitude, it's shitty,".

 

That was the day that Amber decided she  _really_ did not like you, and made it known at every opportunity she could. There isn't really a clear moment in time that you can think of where you did anything negatively towards the woman, and you're certain you prioritised all of the wives equally. It seems that maybe making you the enemy was a way to pass the time, or maybe Amber's position of privilege even prior to the Collapse was so ingrained into her psyche that suddenly being assigned someone beneath her station made her revert even more into her spoiled trophy wife personality, if that was at  _all_ possible. It's a wonder you don't snap, retort or take anything to heart that she says, but it seems you have your vulnerabilities, because the moment an offhand remark had been made about your work uniform, the more you looked like a puppy that had been drop-kicked into a wall.

 

They don't know you very well, but it's hard to fathom being needlessly nasty to someone so completely inoffensive. Sherry even told you to drop the respectful titles, but you struggled with it, because you didn't feel like you were on equal footing at all.  _Misses Sherry_ was something she was struggling to get her head around, apparently you'd been calling Negan "Mr Negan" too and had to try to hardwire the habit out of yourself. It wasn't a pleasant conversation to have with the man at all - when she eventually spoke to him, but she absolutely had to unload her discomfort regarding the group the Saviors were now apparently involved with. She watched the thinly veiled disgust dance across Negan's features, and she hadn't even gone into much detail, just that Payton had been doing this since you were a little girl, and that the reason she'd been spotted at the health centre was for your sake, because he'd brutalised you so much that you'd developed a UTI that required antibiotics. 

 

He was silent for the whole thing, before quietly getting up and picking Lucille up with him. 

 

"Thanks for letting me know," he said, betraying nothing of what had gone through his mind when he left. He vows to take some time out to talk to you, but he's such a busy guy that it's kind of hard unless he foists more responsibility to his right-hand man, Simon. Unfortunately, things don't really fold out the way we always want them too, and it's a while before Negan gets any one-to-one time with you.

 

Looking at you now, Sherry feels like she might have betrayed some small sliver of hesitant trust between the pair of you in telling him, but it's for your own good - she thinks, this way, there is no way in hell you'd ever been turned back to them, she's certain of it. She hopes her little display with Amber is enough to show you that she really isn't out to "get you" in any way, and it thaws some of the glacial reception you'd received from the other wives. None of them, Sherry included, can really figure out why you're housed in the boudoir to begin with, besides it being easier for a servant to access them, still doesn't explain why Negan would take particular time in making sure you're settled somewhere safe. Not if you aren't screwing him, anyway, and they're all certain you aren't. The more they get to see you though, the more it suspiciously resembles pity, but it's hard for them to credit Negan with much in the way of selfless emotions despite the kindnesses he affords them, because all of them have their own personal sacrifices dangling over their heads like a sword of Damocles, the people that they had to give up to keep safe.

 

Tanya noticed Sherry's behaviour first after the incident with Amber - that she seemed to keep an extra eye out. She got up earlier, and went to bed later, if only so her times would coincide with yours a little more. It's odd, because she doesn't really talk to you any more than she usually does when she does this, she's just  _observing._ It isn't entirely a conscious act either, but since walking you to the health centre, she rationalises it as checking up on how your physically doing, because it wouldn't do for you hurt yourself within the first week of being here and direct Negan's ire onto them. 

 

It's curiosity. She knows more than she really ever wanted to now, about how you were before you came here, and she's certain that came with a lot of omissions. Things that she was content not to know, because what little she had gleaned from you that day in the bathroom had been enough to haunt her daily thoughts. The tall woman would make her rounds in the evening, finishing a round of cards with Laverne late into the evening, before stalking upstairs and stopping short of the smallest bedroom. Most of the time, you shut the door, but today, you hadn't. 

 

For a moment, Sherry feels a bit nosy, watching you sleep in your single bed, perhaps the only single in the whole boudoir. She's not sure what the original intent for the room was, but you're in it now, curled up nakedly and vulnerably in your sheets. She knows because she can see your work uniform neatly folded atop your desk, even in the dark, along with the jersey and shorts you usually wore in the building. The sheets are wrapped like a cocoon around your small, frail form, but she can see where the bruising begins and trails down before fading into nothing, cleavage pressed against the linens with a moulded plush toy between them. You squirm in the sheets, as you often did - she could hear it from the rustling as she often walked by when the door was shut, and wondered what awful thing you could be dreaming about.

 

That place you came from, probably. And she isn't completely wrong.

 

The new lease of life you've been given here hasn't erased the horror of how it came to pass, it's just been a slow-drip effect it's had on you, through your struggle to process what to do with all of your assorted emotions, especially as so much had subsided on this massive lie that your group were the only humans left in the world. 

 

 _Poor thing, I should probably wake her up -_ but you'd probably not have much of a better time when you fell asleep again, you hadn't since you'd gotten here.

 

Sherry watched as your bow lips parted, brows drawn into an imperceptible frown in your sleep, your face strained with discomfort that detailed trouble in dreamland. You gave a few quick shuddering breaths, evening light pouring from your small window where you'd forgotten to draw the curtains shut. It cast down on your dark skin, illuminating it beautifully as your thrown back head betrayed how much your collarbone protruded, and the true extent of the bruising now that it wasn't covered partially by your jersey.

 

It's horrible, Sherry thinks, frowning and taking a few resolute steps into your bedroom - if only to draw the curtains shut, she tells herself.

 

Regret settles inside her when she glances over at your sleeping body after pulling the cream coloured curtains shut, watching the way your chest rises and falls under the sheets, like you're belaboured with pain in each few shallow breathes. She'd shut the curtains but not quickly enough, because the evening hues lit up the slick wetness that had pooled down the sides of your temples from your squeezed-shut eyes, betraying your sleeping tears. She felt guiltier than ever, for not waking you, and the longer she stands there, the more she begins to feel like a voyeur, intruding on someone else's most private of moments.

 

Curiosity keeps her rooted to the spot for a moment, but she can feel goosebumps of discomfort as she hears your breathy tones. If they weren't riddled with such faint misery, they might be sensuous, in another situation. Just not this one. Hell, it still kind of  _does_ \- because there's an undercurrent of something  _loving_ when she listens to your words. But it's the sad kind of loving, the kind that tangles itself on the tail end of heartbreak. She can only wonder at what exactly you're dreaming about, because she can't make sense of the names you whisper in your sleep, only somewhat empathise a little with the sensation of not having the person you love near you.

 

_You feel your entire body aching like a machine that's been left under the bleating sun, abused and covered in rust so that all of its parts moan with discontent as they're forced into service. Your body ached with the same kind of pain, like your bones might have rusted under the pure level of exertion that Payton's nightly exploits costed you. The soreness betwixt your thighs has dwindled to something almost pleasant now though, but you're laying in your makeshift bed, pulling a ratty sheet up to your naked chest, not daring to turn your head on the pillow to face the man who mounted you the way the dog mounts a bitch, and uttered another woman's name._

 

_It takes every inch of your willpower to imagine his cold eyes for the limitless, forest-like warmth that brimmed from Troy's when he looked at you. The man that you might imagine could love you someday. A day without Payton, maybe. Someday. If you aren't too difficult to love. If you turned around to check that the man had closed his eyes, you weren't certain you could stomach the sight that would be looking back at you._

 

_"W'yl dun," the man grunted, before passing out into the sleepy haze of afterglow. "Luv yu 'Resa.."_

 

_Resa. Theresa. The name of Number Twelve. Not you._

 

_"I don't love you," that was the birth of your rebellion, your rebellious thoughts that you'd always been too cowardly to voice to Payton's face. It doesn't matter that he pretended you're someone else, if you'd said that, he'd have slapped you until you heard bells ringing. You swallowed your fear, and looked vindictively up at the ceiling, tears stinging your eyes as they cascaded down your temples when you lay on your back, ignoring the pains that it caused you to do so. You balled the sheets around your breasts, fist resting over your heart as you poured all of your resentment into the ratty bit of material, and kept your hands over your heart._

 

_"I don't love you, I love Troy Everett."_

 

_You closed your eyes and felt your teeth grinding against each other to stop you sobbing, and actually waking the great oaf that lay beside you._

 

_"I love your son," you breathed needfully into the night._

 

_"I love Troy Everett," you repeated it softly into the night, the way 'No place like home' might take you back to Kansas like in that storybook you read, as though repeating it enough might change Payton for Troy, or when you open your eyes, you may find yourself in his arms instead. It was a stupid, babyish, illogical hope, and he may not even love you back, but you did it anyway._

 

_"I love Troy Everett."_

 

_The tears made small pools either side of your head as your heart heaved with an unimaginable heaviness, somehow remembering that in the waking world, there was no Troy anymore._

 

_"I love Troy Everett."_

 

When the words passed your sleeping body a third time - Sherry took her leave, feeling strangely haunted and as though she had walked in on something never meant for her, gently creaking the door shut to your sad, shuddering words.

 

"I loved Troy Everett."

 

* * *

 

 

Despite whatever turmoils you were going through, you never failed to show up for work. Rodney would always see you bright and early, often a few moments before he opened up the metalworks for the day to begin with, and then you'd sit right back down at your workbench and begin working on your embossing and leather sewing with a dedication that made Rodney feel a little outperformed. You were determined to ingratiate yourself in a good way with the boss to keep your place at the Sanctuary secure, whether or not he was a nice person to ingratiate yourself with, was anyone's guess. The perplexing and kind way that he'd treated you made you want to trust him, but he had killed Troy, even if he said he hadn't meant to, it was a hard thing to just  _let go -_ and that big scary bat that he carried around just bred a deep sense of fear and dread inside of you whenever you looked at it. 

 

Any hope that Negan might be a nice man was dashed fairly quickly, when all of the Sanctuary had been called to bare witness to what he had to say. He called a meeting in one of the warehouses, and instantly Rodney's can-do demeanour dropped, and he silently led you there. Everyone knelt in Negan's presence, but nobody told you that you had to, and so when it happened, you were left standing uncomfortably, looking around you in muted disbelief and slight fear when you realised you hadn't followed suit. The man lorded down on his empire from a high metallic balcony, the few who didn't bow were standing near him, before he begins to descend down to everyone's level, and the crowd parts for his presence like the red sea.

 

He's making some grandiose speech about the great cost of stupidity, and how endangerment of the group was not tolerated on any level, and it's only because he's feeling  _nice_ today that a man isn't going to die.

 

You're not paying it enough attention, because your attention is too focused on the man in question.

 

_Marshmallow?_

 

Your entire body is reverberating in terror when you realise Negan is carrying Lucille towards him, it only wanes for a moment as he rests her against a closed coal furnace, and instead grabs for a hot iron. Apparently, while you had been busy settling in, in your apartment in the first few days, Marshall had been given false documents regarding allocations, allowing for rebels to pilfer some of their supplies, and he'd been too scared to raise the alarm - it had been found out, of course, and said group had been quashed, but Marshall was about to pay the price for his cowardice.

 

And it would be a steep one.

 

Everyone else is rather nonplussed by what transpires, it serves as a terrifying reminder sure, but all of the Saviors baring witness including Rodney know well enough to school their expressions to ones of utter blankness as Negan holds the iron over the hot coals after lighting the furnace with a long, curled metal rod, so he wouldn't have to stick his hand into the heat. He keeps his tone light and bubbly, despite the fact Marshall is shaking, and his hands have been bound behind his back, with Dwight holding him down by both shoulders so he doesn't move.

 

"Tell me, which is your best side?" Negan grinned, pulling the iron out when the underside of it glows the colour of molten lava under the light of the flame. He can now grab it by the heatproof handle, and drops the metal hook unceremoniously onto the floor, taking agonisingly slow strides towards Marshall, that you found punctuated by the loud rhythmic thuds of your heart as it began to pound wildly in your ears. You're narrowly aware of Rodney's fingers digging into the bruised part of your skin accidentally, but he's silently willing you not to freak out, because he can feel you trembling under his arms.

 

"Ah well, your best side is gonna be your left side from now on, now hold still - and take it like a champ, would ya? You've still got some chance of not looking like a  _total_ pussy," he chuckled. You watched as Marshall refused to blink, eyes frozen wide with terror, clinging to the encroaching iron as Negan begins to press it onto the right side of his face, completely encompassing an eye in the process. Marshall's screams echo through your body as you slam your hands up over your face and stagger back into Rodney, who doesn't move, you want to scream too, but nothing comes out, like your throat had been blunted by the horror too much.

 

Rodney holds you still with his tremendous strength, but almost instinctively tries to tuck your head into his body so you don't have to see - but it's too late. Your eyes clung to the strips of flesh that were stretching in sinewy strips when Negan pulls back the iron. He'd kept the iron on so long that it had burned around Marshall's eyelid, and he managed to look even worse than Dwight, his eye permanently protruding out of his face and giving that visage as though it's popping out when in truth, you can just see how an eye nestled inside of a skull truly looks. The smell hits you last - but haunts you all the same. 

 

Any notion of Negan perhaps being a nice man is eviscerated in a single moment, and he unwittingly makes himself a special place in your nightmares, leaving you feeling vaguely terrorised whenever you caught a mere glimpse of him. When everyone is expected to return to their workstations as normal, you're shaking and bow-legged the whole time, and all but collapse into your seat. You shake and tremble so much that you cant even pick up a needle, making Rodney send you back to the boudoir - if anyone asks where you are, he said he'd cover you.

 

You cringe at the thought, but you don't want him to get into trouble after what you witness, so you ring your shaking hands out almost violently with several clicking noises. 

 

_I cannot just exceed expectations._

 

_I must be the best._

 

_I must work flawlessly._

 

Payton had always gotten on -you- for not being flawless, and you had little control of that, but your craft? Your craft  _could be_ \- with enough effort, so you worked diligently on your sample work, fuelled by determination and complete terror. Would Negan do that to you, if you displeased him enough? Sure, he didn't punish the way Payton did, but apparently he had his own way of doing it, and maintained a veneer of violent apathy that you do not know how to act around. You work on the gloves like your goddamn life depends on it, because in your mind, it just might. Originally, they began as a testament to your skills, to show him you really did belong here, and something of a gift, to thank him for giving you enough things freely to start out with, without demanding anything of your body, but now?

 

It felt like all that nice intention had gone, and you worked out of pure fear.

 

_I have to... I have to be the best. I have to do the best I can. I have to. I have to. I have to._

 

God, poor Marshall. Every part of you wanted to visit him in the health centre, but you were too close to finishing your magnum opus of the year.

 

_I have to do better._

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, think I broke my own heart a little with that dream sequence :(


	6. Must Come To An End

 

 

_The thin and delicate column of your neck strains against the blanket warmth of the hand coiled around it. Your lungs ached against your chest as your head remained tipped back, forcing your eyes to stare up into the burning sun until your eyes stung with tears and poured down your cheeks. Your gullet felt like a straw tightening and struggling against a thick, sludgy liquid, trying desperately to suck it down as you griped for oxygen. It's hard to breathe, you can feel meaty, thick, fingers squeezing around you like a vice, raising you to the heavens for all to see in one, impressive grip. You cannot feel the ground beneath the feet - you feel like a fish dangling off of a hook, rapidly losing the ability to breathe now it'd been pulled out of water. Your body dangles but, unlike a fish, you cannot summon the will to wriggle and try to strain and flop around for freedom, you're paralysed with fear. Your arms are dangling limply at your side, hands trembling near your waist before you manage to lift them upwards between tremors, trying to prize the hand off of your throat._

 

_"Do you understand what you cost me? Do you understand what fucking dead weight costs this Sanctuary?" it's the growling, angry voice that managed to meet a halfway point between pissed and bubbly. It's an oddly terrifying mixture, and without looking down you know who it is. It's Negan - and the moment you realise it, you can smell the scent of scorching skin beneath your nose, making your tongue curl and hit the roof of your mouth, if you had enough oxygen in you to dry-heave, you would have, but you couldn't. Any longer, and your eyes were going to roll back into your skull - he seems to realise this, so he flings your body in one direction quickly and violently._

 

_Metal echoes through your ears as he tosses you against the side of the coal furnace, making a crack reverberate through your skull with a wince. More tears fall, but his cold, tunnelling eyes are devoid of anything except faint amusement mixed with disdain while you splutter for air. His grip loosens marginally, and you feet finally touch the ground, but he doesn't let go of your neck, but instead, leans forward, licking his lower lip and glaring down at you. As though you are more prey than person, like you're not quite worth the effort he's putting in. It's actually kind of similar to the look Amber gives you in passing, but somehow, more vitriolic._

 

_"Don't send me b-back," you stammered, gasping and hungrily taking in all of the air you could, colour slowly returning to your lips. "Please I - not Payton. Y-you... you don't know what he does to me," you whimpered._

 

_His expression did not become anymore sympathetic, instead, a small smirk flitted across his features._

 

_"The things he makes me do," you're pleading with him, but he isn't shifting, in fact - it is like he thinks you deserve it. You didn't give him the output he expected, and his investment in letting you stay here feels like a mistake. The man has no sympathy for you, just impatience, and anger. "Please, if you send me back, he'll kill me, I know it."_

_Negan's eyes narrow, and his tremendous body pushes into you as he picks you up by your collar quite suddenly, slamming you against the furnace and again lifting you so your toes don't touch the ground, and you're eye-level with his incredibly limitless gaze, which already felt like it was chewing and tearing strips into your soul with how harshly he'd judged you. His voice is like velvet and sandpaper at the same time, he manages anger and bubbliness in the same breathe like a walking contradiction, but the words he speaks sends shivers of terror down your spine, just as his light mockery had done to Marshall._

_"Doll, worry less about the fucker whose made up his mind about what to do with you," his smile was positively nasty as he backed you up, swinging the furnace's little hatch door open. "-and worry more about the guy whose still mulling it over!" he snarled, before throwing you head first into the open flame. Your skin is melting - dripping like melted butter and leaving the skin in its place as charred, black sinews. Dripping, pouring down into the furnace - long, fleshy strips like what had stuck to the molten hot iron against Marshall---_

 

Your eyes darted open, hands flying up to your face as you muted the scream that threatened to come out of your throat. Teeth chattering in your skull, you felt the dull ache in your jaw and realised you'd managed to terrify yourself into shaking all over with uncontrollable tremors, your naked body now absolutely soaked with sweat to the point of checking if you'd wet the bed or not. It's not a habit you have, but after certain kinds of abuse and some long nights, it has happened before, so you wouldn't be surprised. It's happened four times in your life, and each time you'd been mortified. Thankfully, you hadn't this time, you were just intensely sweaty. Sweaty and terrified. For a while, you just sit upright in the bed, holding Terence against your form while you try to control your staggering breathing. 

 

A hand flies up to your neck, as though to check it for bruising to match your collarbone and shoulder, and then desperately over your smooth features, expecting to feel wetness, blood, sinew and bone. Sighing with relief that all of your skin is still there, you slowly head for the showers after wrapping the thin sheet around you. The boudoir had good facilities, at least - and so you didn't have to go out and use the communal, but it's a bit chilly and now the adrenaline had worn off from your dream, the nightly coldness set in. It's a nice thing though, just being able to wash yourself whenever you want to - and not needing anyone else's help to do that.

 

Staring down at Terence, you swallowed thickly, before pulling the duffel bag out from under the bed and tossing him in. Seeing if Marshall was okay felt like a priority now, especially after such a horrible dream. To say you're scared of Negan now is an understatement. You exist in utter terror of the man, and who can fault you for it? You picked the devil you didn't know over the one that you did. Up until this point, the breadth and depth of the mans cruelty was unknown to you, besides what had transpired in the clearing with Payton, Troy and Alpha Centauri, and even then, you'd been inside the main truck for most of it. You had some vague idea from the responses he garnered off of Rodney and other Saviors, but you had no actual, graspable understanding until you had seen what he'd done to Marshall firsthand. 

 

You wondered if you might run into the man when you go to visit Marshall, but nobody had told you that you couldn't, and it was far more likely that he'd wash up in the boudoir in his spare time than anywhere near someone who had apparently betrayed the group with his cowardice. That was another hard thing to swallow - because you'd cooped yourself in your apartment complex at the time this "betrayal" was occurring, so, much like as with the incident involving Troy and Negan, you hadn't actually been there to bare witness to it, despite being so very close. That's what made Marshall's punishment and Troy's death so hard to accept, you couldn't really reconcile with the idea of the things they'd done that warranted the consequences wrought. Logically, it had to be accepted, but it was hard, and manifested itself as pure terror in your dreams - making the man seem that much more unreasonable, illogical and scary. In the dream, he'd gone from simply a large, imposing man to an utter giant, able to pick you up by the throat with one hand.

 

 _He probably could though,_ you mused darkly, before sliding into your work uniform and dolly shoes and heading out in the small hours of the morning. You don't know if the health centre had opening and closing times like yours and Rodney's businesses did, but you found yourself not particularly caring. You may not know the man very well, but surely he'd be in great pain, and terrified? You used to have someone for that, but not everybody did, and it wouldn't come as any surprise if Saviors avoided Marshall after the ironing. 

 

 _How can they act like my people were messed up for what they did when they do this?_ Maybe the fact your branding was a number made it different, like chattel, but you can't really say it's any better than the horror committed to Marshall's face. You left the boudoir at six in the morning, after making sure the oatmeal breakfast was prepared for when the wives got up. You slipped in some things you thought Marshall might like, but the whole thing felt rather clandestine - and like you might be breaking some invisible rule you didn't know, which was especially foolish in light of what you'd just seen and dreamed of.

 

 _I'm brave,_ you told yourself, slinking down the empty street. Even now, at this early hour, there were Saviors who were awake. Not many - but the people on kitchen duty for such a large compound were, making separate queues, one that looked like it was for actual food - things like before the world ended kind of food - and another which looked like mush and yogurt. The mush didn't smell too bad though, it was apparently potato salad - and on an off chance, you grabbed some with what few points you had, surprising the staff that someone was out this early whose not a guard.

 

"That's the one that stays in the boudoir - so just serve her and go, the last thing I need is trouble because you didn't serve her," the head chef snapped to one of his subordinates - who tried to explain the food in the "main queue" i.e  _the good one_ wasn't ready yet, but you just shrugged, and happily took some mush for your own breakfast. The wives had their own little pantry of things stocked up from the kitchen supplies now that you'd be cooking occasionally, but you could also just ask them to fix dinner trays and wheel them down yourself if in a pinch, but considering how many wives there were, you found taking a small supply of ingredients and copying their menu to be easier.

 

You didn't know what to say at the head chef's abrasive attitude. The fact you stayed in the boudoir even though you weren't a wife seemed to have earned you some differential treatment, but you'd dwell on it later. The health centre wasn't open, or closed per se, Doctor Carson just wasn't there - he was asleep in his own rooms, so you found yourself creeping through the building, sticking your head into each dark room illuminated by dawning hues slipping through windows. Eventually, you found the singularly filled bed and slunk inside. 

 

You have an hour before your work day starts, and that's long enough. You crept over to the sleeping form - at least, until the raspy voice actually spoke.

 

"Whose there?" you flinched, but quickly whispered back in hushed tones.

 

"It's just me, I just wanted to see if you were okay before work," you swallowed thickly. Now, that sounded stupid out loud didn't it? Of course he's not okay, the state of him is difficult to look at. It's visually displeasing, repulsive almost. You're uncertain as to why he's not bandaged up yet, but you don't know much, if anything, about medicine, all you can see are the wet pockets of skin that occasionally seem to ooze a soft pus mixed with blood. His eye is milky white, and again, protruding slightly more than his unburned one. You draw a shaking gasp of air and chew your bottom lip.

 

Marshall's silent for a long time, and doesn't turn his head - it probably hurts too much for him to do so, or maybe he just doesn't want to see the look on your face.

 

 _"That's sweet,"_   he doesn't want to say you shouldn't be here, because there's no rule saying the punished couldn't be visited, but it seldom ever happens, for obvious reasons. He's even more uncertain, as the rumours going around the Savior mill is that you're a pet project of a sort, which is why Negan lets you stay with his wives. There's more distasteful rumours, naturally - but you're unaware of them, and would probably stay that way. Part of Marshall is a bit mournful that you're seeing him like this, dejected, feeling sorry himself, and horrifically scarred, but he cannot snub the kindness.

 

It is something that he is so rarely afforded, even though he doesn't know you very well - that just speaks volumes of the kind of person you must be.

 

"Rodney would want to know you're okay too, I think," you're trying to fill the room with nice sentiment, because the atmosphere is oppressive, sad and dark. The efforts don't go amiss, but it doesn't feel like it is working. Even looking at the man is painful, so you cannot imagine what it must actually feel like. Despite the visceral disgust, part of you wonders what it's like to touch it - to know if it's so burned that he cannot feel under his skin anymore, if it's as wet and as slimy as the burned flesh pockets actually look - if the black, charred bits are as rough as what you'd imagined your own in your dreams to be like. 

 

You have just enough forethought not to ask, you don't want to hurt the man, he's been hurt enough.

 

 _"I'm surprised you can even look at it, I can't even look at it,"_ Marshall mumbles hoarsely, feeling the intensity of your gaze - it reminds you of yourself, in a strange way. It's a mixture of dejection and low self-esteem and you cant fault him for it, it's as ugly as it is painful and you cant gloss over it. Maybe when it's healed a bit, it'll be a lot easier to look at - like how Dwight was a lot easier to look at, but his burn seemed so much worse, and one eye was milky - so he'd probably lost all of his vision in it now.

 

"You look like Terence," you blurt out, after trying and failing to find the words that might make his new deformity seem any less severe. In a hurry to fill the silence, knowing you'd have only an hour and not wanting to spend it sitting in silence across from him, staring at the disfigurement, you pulled the mouldy, pastel bear out of your duffel and held it over Marshall's face, so he could see his likeness in the bear. You didn't expect much, but the man surprises you by letting out a weak snort and a faint smile as you nestled it near one of his arms.

 

"I thought he might help a bit, I mean, he keeps me company but you'll probably need company more," you live with six women, of course - and Marshall cannot imagine drawing the same kind of satisfaction you do from the bear. He's certain you're a little old for it, but he cant knock you for it. You're in a new place, in the purview of a man as scary as Negan, and unlike many other Saviors, you cannot slip into the woodwork like them, you're nearly always going to be within the line of sight as a fact of living in the boudoir, and that thought makes Marshall a little uncomfortable.

 

"I'll give him back when I'm done then," he tries to smile, but it creases some of his burned skin when he does, so he stops, because it aches dully.

 

The awkward silence settles between you again, before you reach into the duffel and withdraw a plastic container with a spoon in it. It's not the best and most "breakfasty" thing - but it was tasty, and would provide a good amount of protein, carbs and things you supposed Saviors would need this early in the morning.

 

"Want some mush?" you blurted out, unable to take his quietness for long, thrusting it under his nose. "I think it's supposed to be potato salad, it's nice though. Not really breakfast-y, but I thought you'd need all of your strength so you can get better quicker," glancing down, you set a second container on the beside table, which was a small chromium drawer, which only had a change of clothes.

 

"This is some pasta that got left, I think the wives think I had it, but I eat while I cook," you mumble shyly "-it'll probably be cold by the time you get to it, but I'm probably gonna work through dinner. I might take a while before I can see you," you said quietly, only for Marshall to try to smile, despite knowing what it did to his face.

 

Now he  _had_ to say something, his conscience might kill him if he doesn't.

 

"That's okay, just focus on your work, alright?" he turns a little on the pillow, even though he's not supposed to - so he can look at you with his working eye. "Listen, Shortass," he said, trying to raise himself upright without knocking the bear off of the bed and toppling it to the floor, it's clearly a worn-out looking thing, but you must really like it, so the last thing he wants to do is disrespect your gentle gesture. 

 

"What you saw yesterday - " the moment he cuts in with that, you screw your eyes shut, like you're trying to dispel the memory. For a moment, Marshall feels bad for even bringing it up, but it's for your own good - he tells himself, he's doing it for your own good. 

 

"I deserved it," the man shuddered out "-in fact, I should probably be dead. What I... well, what I  _didn't do_ endangered a lot of people. Lots and lots of people. Now, I'm absolutely fantastic," Marshall smiled weakly "-but I'm not worth the lives of everyone in the compound, not by any stretch."

 

You wanted to say nobody deserved what happened to him, but instead, you keep obediently quiet and let the man talk.

 

"It's really sweet of you to come and see if I'm alright," Marshall said softly "-but I don't think that you should. It's not that it isn't allowed, but... you understand living in the boudoir makes the rules different for you, right? Even though you haven't married Negan, you need to understand that you're going to be looked at with a lot more scrutiny than you deserve, and I don't want you to get into trouble, okay?".

 

He closes his eyes, and murmurs something you're not used to hearing from anyone but Troy.

 

"You're a sweet girl. So just, do your best, okay? Do your best, don't ask questions, and keep yourself safe, out of trouble and out of sight when you can. You'll see me as soon as the doc says I'm good to go, I promise." He's essentially telling you to keep your head down, to scarper when Negan enters the boudoir. He doesn't know you very well, but like Rodney, Marshall finds himself making a choice for your benefit.

 

"Now go get to work," he murmured, turning his head away from you. "No slacking," - as though it were just another day in the office, and he was standing over your leatherworks with a clipboard in hand.

 

A humourless laugh escapes you despite yourself.

 

"Get well soon."

 

* * *

 

 

Rodney doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything at all. He watches you don the jeweller's loupe and begin working, and then dying the brown leather to a deep shade of black, before silently taking inventory of some of the new thread you'd gotten in, now that Marshall wasn't here to do it. The air of camaraderie had gone, and morale in the smithy and leatherworks was at an all-time low. Usually, your presence was quite uplifting, but as of yesterday, nobody had anything to say to each other. The hissing noises of steam and metal clanging against Rodney's workbench was the only sort of comfort you had, the monotony was like a soothing sort of white noise that filled the empty space that would usually be filled with Marshal's chatter.

 

You freeze when you realise you've actually finished your project - there's physically not much else you can do to it anymore. Removing the loupe, you place your fingers flat over your wooden desk and stare at your drying gloves, You didn't have anyone you could pass it on to, and nobody had been reassigned in Marshall's place to monitor your progress, so you'd have to present the sample piece yourself, which made a cold knot of dread settle in your stomach. You procrastinated over it, it's not like you'd be able to do it until he visited the boudoir anyway, so that brought you some time.

 

"If you're going to present that to him, you could look for something to box it in, pretty it up a bit," Rodney recommended. He doesn't envy you one bit, he's not sure he could handle such close quarters with the man and from the look on your face, neither could you. The little extra task seems to put you at ease though, you're a lot calmer when you have something to do - he's half tempted to have you work with him in metalworks for the rest of the day, but it's dangerous work, and he doesn't want you too close to his furnaces after what you had to witness with no warning yesterday.

 

"Where will I find a box?" you frowned, letting Rodney point you to allocations.

 

Apparently, boxes being as worthless as they are, require no points, and the fact you asked for one gained you an odd look from one of the Saviors managing the supply lines. He didn't even bother checking his list to see what a box might even be worth in terms of points, because unless they were a large, industrial container or one the engineer needed to house specific chemicals in, average run-of-the-mill cardboard was worthless. The man, whose name was apparently "Fat Joey," - just shrugged and pointed to a pile of things which hadn't been sorted, and would most likely be discarded. You personally don't think Fat Joey is a very nice name to have, but apparently it's a lot catchier than "Regular Sized Joey," - and makes it easier to differentiate from a Savior of the same name.

 

"That's the discard pile, there's boxes there. Knock yourself out," he shrugged - turning back to the queue.

 

Looking around you, you see long, long lines and impatient Saviors with clipboards stocked with sheets, sorted alphabetically and meticulously, the sound of paper-flipping and impatience hanging in the Allocations warehouse. The walls are a bleak grey colour and not a lot of light seeps through. The only reason you're allowed to jump the queue is because Dwight spots you, and knowing you're a resident of the boudoir, muscles you forward, only for you to ask for something so completely pointless that he's not even sure if he should be irritated or vaguely amused by it. The blond - a bit curious, perhaps, stands and watches you sort through the pile of things deemed unimportant or low priority and tips out a single loafer from a plain, nondescript black box. There's no real logo on it anywhere, so it's perfect. It is only ever so slightly too big, so it'll do. 

 

Dwight's watching you still, but you glide past without much care. There's more people here than you're used to, so you want to retreat back into your little safe-zone, which for you, is your work place.

 

You work on the presentation for a few more moments, cutting up some strips of some light, spare materials that were brought to set up the clothier side of the leatherworks and used it to pad the box out slightly. You've never had a present before - not the kind that come in a box, and you tell Rodney as much - so he can give you some direction. He hopes that the boss is gentler behind closed doors than he lets on, because he truly wants this to go well for you. The moment you gain favour, the more you're guaranteed safe here in the Sanctuary. Setting up a new industry also pulled a lot of scrutiny in its direction, not just from Negan but from curious Saviors who would wonder how this improves the quality of life too. You had to prove yourself somewhat, especially as you were housed with the wives. You didn't want to put out the image that you had taken the "easy" route out, because it would not bode well for your social life there. The wives are grudgingly respected, but they are not  _liked,_ nor are some people particularly pleased with the idea of someone not having to work for anything they have. 

 

"I'm scared," you admitted softly as you began to close up with Rodney. His hand comes down on your non-bruised side gently, trying to be as comforting as he can manage.

 

"I know," he said gently "-just don't upset him, and you'll be fine," he squeezed.

 

He and Marshall's words stuck with you, and the walk back to the boudoir felt more like a long, dread-filled trudge, like being made to walk the plank. 

 

The boss was the absolute last person you wanted to have to deal with right now. It's a childish thing but you really wished it were possible for Rodney to come with you and hold your hand, Hell - he doesn't even have to do that, he doesn't even have to touch you, you just don't want to be in Negan's presence alone. The wives would be there, of course - but it wasn't the same, they didn't provide that sense of safety, not even Misses Sherry - the one whose nicest to you, quite does. There's something about Rodney's big, lumbering form that comforts you, and so you feel naked and anxious without him when you stand in the doorway.

 

Upon entering, you feel the tenseness right from the hallway, so you make a swift change for the kitchen instead, holding the black box close to your chest. The wives are drinking heavily, as seems to be the norm here, but Laverne warns you that Negan is here, and _occupied_ with Vanessa. The colour positively drains out of your face at his mere mention - for some reason, you hoped he wasn't there, even knowing you'd have to see him eventually, you'd just hoped to stall it for a while. The terror is palpable, but none of them call you out on it, they just leave you clean the kitchen silently after placing your box on the counter.  There's the odd curious look, but they leave you to your business.

 

A door slams, and suddenly, everything is painfully quiet - even the telltale moans have gone. You can hear the wives scarpering out of the living room, all of them quickly headed to the bedrooms without a word. You freeze - something isn't right, so you set down the cleaning rag and quietly creep up after Tanya, catching her gaze as she headed for her room. You hear all of the doors shut - and that knot of dread in your stomach intensifies.

 

" _\- UNGRATEFUL BITCH - "_

 

You flinch at the sound of Negan's roar as a door unlocks and slams shut shortly after, making you quickly dart back down the stairs before you catch sight of him. You see the back of him, and can see his neck red with rage - and that is enough to send you scarpering into the kitchen like a skittish mouse. Hopefully, he'd leave - and you could just talk to him when he was calmer. Panic sets in when you hear the sounds of his feet hitting down each step, accompanying the growing thud of your heartbeat which felt like it was swelling all the way up to your ears, just as it had yesterday.

 

Something must have happened with the wife that he was sleeping with. The last thing you wanted was to be caught in the line of fire when it came to Negan's ire, Marshall's words hanging in your mind. Every part of you wanted to find a small space, like a cupboard or under the sink. You swung the small cabinets open, only to find them filled to the brim with plates and more cleaning supplies, making you swallow thickly. The grip of your fingers around the small handles began to loosen as you slowly shut them, scared of making too much of a noise. 

 

The kitchen sink began to blur in your vision slightly as your chest ached, breathing quickening as the sound of footsteps got nearer. You moved to scrub the counter mindlessly to try to calm the onslaught of terror, trying to picture Negan walking down the hallway and straight for the front door instead of detouring for the living room and coming anywhere near you. Almost in slow motion, you can see your jittering body getting too close to the washed out wine glass on the edge of the counter top - and when you realise you've knocked it, you simultaneously realise it's too late to catch it. Your eyes follow the glass tumbling to the tiled floor as your stomach dropped at equal speeds, your whole body flinching as it made impact with the floor, sending shards of glass sprawling across the tile around your feet.

 

_No._

 

You're caught between dropping to your knees - damned if you catch a shard in them or not - and scooping the mess up with your hands to throw into the nearest waste bin or just freezing up totally in fright when your heart constricts in your chest as the footsteps stop - and get closer instead of further away.

 

Mind going blank, you drop to your knees and begin frantically scooping the shards into your hands, ignoring the prickles against your skin when sharper edges brushed your palms. You tossed the remains in the bin as you caught sight of Negan's wide frame in your peripheral vision.

 

When Negan lays eyes on you, he can catch the naked fear all over you without you having to say a word. You shake like a leaf, and you're too afraid to meet his eyes. The image he sees is of you in your dungaree-dress, hastily scooping up shards of glass with your bare hands before he comes in, as though he might tear into you for that too. For a moment, he's not sure if he should start with something consoling, or something genial, to be honest - he's still angry - and it's clear on his face, even if his brows aren't drawn into a frown, it's festering behind his eyes. His entire form radiates a lustful heat and you notice he's without his trademark jacket, and instead is in a white shirt which is clinging to his collarbone and his arms when he walks from all the places he's worked up a sweat.

 

You feel the dull ache in your lower abdomen and were certain if you'd drank anything that day, you might have wet yourself like a dog that'd gotten hit with the rod one too many times. Instead, your knees invert when they knock into each other, and you're entirely supporting yourself with the sink. 

 

"Hello," Negan decides to go with that, only to see the colour drain out of your face utterly. 

 

He frowns, and slowly advances towards you - watching as you fold in on yourself, hands flying to either shoulder so that your arms cross over your chest and torso protectively. It takes all of your will not to throw them up over your head to protect it from an oncoming blow, because experience tells you that it pisses men off when you do that. If they're angry enough to strike you - than they fully expect the strike to land. He takes in your work uniform first - it's the first time he's seen you in anything even slightly form-fitting, even if it's only around your upper thighs, but you look a little more womanly in that, but the undone sagging strap on the side of you that he knows is bruised makes the whole ensemble look a little cuter than perhaps it should, and so the sight of you cowering isn't particularly pleasing.

 

The closer he gets, the more he can hear your short breaths, and that you're having a panic attack.

 

"Hey," he tries again - there's an overwhelming temptation to reach out for you, but instead, he reaches past you, and silently turns on the tap to fill a small glass of water. "Calm down, deep breaths, hold them for a few seconds, and let go. Then drink this," his voice, even though still carrying a current of agitation that wasn't directed to you, was still firm and authoritative as Negan thrust the small glass into your hands, only to watch it shake  _violently_ in your grip, sending splatters down your wrist and hand when you go to drink it.

 

 _I'm brave,_ you try to tell yourself, searching for that boost of courage which had made you seek out Marshall in the small hours of the morning, but even just standing the man's shadow felt like he could somehow see what you'd done, and was steadily stripping your soul down to all of its worthless components.

 

"Go sit inside," said Negan, still frowning -  _'Holy shit, am I doing that?'_ He isn't totally sure at first, because he's certain he's not done anything aggressively to you directly, but when Carson's words come to mind, and how hard you recoiled when he raised his voice in your presence last time, it suddenly makes sense.

 

He's not unfamiliar to the sensation of people being shit-scared of him, in fact, he tends to strive for it. It's part of his image, and his image is integral to maintaining control in the Sanctuary, but watching  _you_ be scared of him? That didn't make him feel particularly good. There's nothing good about breaking someone whose already broken. It's why he's so often more forgiving with you than with anyone else. His eyes follow you out of the room as he stalks behind you, watching you take the very edge of the long, black couch.

 

You're not sure what went on upstairs, and you're not sure if you want to know - but you definitely don't want to see the return of his anger. Someone has already suffered for it this week. He watches as you nurse the drink and try to regain control of your breathing, setting the glass onto the coffee table and nearly knocking it over in the process, before shoving your tremor-ridden hands into the large front pocket of the denim dungaree-dress as you kneaded and twisted your fingers nervously. Negan had, in his rage, forgotten about your sensitive presence in the boudoir.

 

You, who were not used to his anger, or the breadth of his cruelty. He's certain you were present for Marshall's branding yesterday, he caught sight of you in Rodney's grip briefly, but didn't dare linger his stare. He didn't want to catch that crushed, confused and horrified expression and break his concentration. Yesterday was about delivering a message as well as punishment, but he wasn't sure if he'd have wanted you around for such a thing, now that he thinks about it. In fact - if he had remembered, he'd have had Simon or Arat walk you back to leatherworks and not had you witness it, given a choice.

 

 _Ah fuck,_ Negan sighed, brushing some loose strands of black hair back and pressing it flat against his skull.

 

"I wanted to talk to you, just not with such shitty timing," he decides to start with that -  _fucking bitch Vanessa -_ he pushes the scornful thought aside, watching you quail on the couch when he takes a seat beside you. For a second, he thinks he can even hear your teeth chattering, and isn't certain what he's done to warrant such fear. 

 

"You're angry," you reply quietly, voice barely above a breathy whisper while you knead your hands together in your pocket. When you look at him, all you can see is a maniacal grin, and the image of him shoving you head-first into open fire, but you can hardly say that, so you just recoil in muted terror.

 

"Not at you," Negan assured "-I'll assume you heard, the walls aren't exactly fucking thin. Do I look like a fucking Donnie to you?" he snorted, though there was no humour in it, despite how casual he was being. You look up at him in confusion - you hadn't heard, but you could take an educated guess. You're silent for a few moments at the rhetorical question, but shake your head a 'no' - doing your best to squash the urge to throw up all over your shoes. Vanessa called out someone else's name during their intimacy, it seems.

 

 _Be brave,_ you scolded yourself, trying to drag your eyes up to the man's and push the image of his maniacal smile out of your mind. You try to compartmentalise your feelings about what he did to Marshall, and Troy. Swallowing audibly, you force yourself to meet his gaze, rolling your shoulders back and doing your very best not to remain utterly seized with fright.

 

"I'm sorry," you pick your words carefully, because despite his blasé way of addressing it, you doubted he would want you to treat it the same way. You just hope you don't pick the  _wrong_ words, and direct his anger at you. Both eyebrows shoot up at your words - he doesn't expect you, who looks ready to pass out in fear - to say that to him. It's not you who should be apologising anyway, and he almost says something to that effect, but you offer him a watery look and repeat yourself softly. 

 

"I'm sorry that - that happened," you stammered out, swallowing again as you felt saliva building up all around your throat from your nerves "-to you."

 

Silence descends for a moment as you look back down at your lap, feeling Negan shift next to you and inch himself a little closer so that he can hear you. He's already much too close - but you're forcing yourself to work through your panic. Feeling like you should fill the silence, you're quick to say something that might embarrass the man less, because maybe that's what he's feeling? Sure, yes, he is angry, but some part of is embarrassing, and hurtful in a way that only someone whose been intimately close with another's body can quite manage to do. It's a unique kind of feeling, and you knew it well.

 

"It hurts," you said quietly "-it hurts in a really specific, embarrassing, kind of way. It's happened to me a lot so..." you trail off, were you just making it worse? You're too scared to look up, but flinch as you feel the couch dipping a little more as he reclines and leans all the way back.

 

"So I know, an 'm _sorry,_ " you mumbled meekly "I-I'll shut up about it now."

 

Negan can feel the anger leaving from his body without him controlling it, there's something about your clumsy attempt at comfort even though you're in clear terror of the man which is endearing. The palpable anger drains out of his body language slowly, his eyes surveying your every movement casually. You're ignoring his flushed skin and obvious, fading arousal - it's actually the  _least startling_ thing about this entire interaction, since he'd obviously left Vanessa in the midst of getting heavy with her. You wonder if, despite your fears, if you can use this moment to somehow get a promise that you wont ever suffer the iron. Could you even trust it though? In the span of one evening, he'd dashed any notion that he could be a nice man. You try to refocus yourself to your original intent -  _ingratiating yourself -_ even if you're petrified.

 

He doesn't address your words, and decides now is as good a time as any, even if...well fuck, it was still a shitty setup, wasn't it?

 

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually," said Negan smoothly "-some of the things you did back with your people."

 

Looking up at him with doe-eyed confusion, doing your best to stay calm. Had he changed his mind about the things he'd have you do? He promised you that what you were doing would be enough, but he was the boss! He could change his mind whenever he liked, right? He's not a good person either, so you wouldn't put it past him either.

 

"More specifically," he leans his head into side of the couch, tilting it in your direction. His casual body language only relaxes you slightly, the fact that Lucille is nowhere to be found also puts you at ease, if only a little. "Why the fuck you lied to me, when I asked about the things you did there?"

 

You go deathly silent, paling several shades not thought possible on your complexion before he realises how aggressive his words are, even if his tone isn't.

 

"I'm not angry," he reiterates "-Sherry just enlightened me about a few things, because I had reports of the two of you at the health centre," and naturally, the health of his boudoir residents is of his concern, you suppose, but you cant help but feel betrayed by Sherry when he reveals it. Your cheeks burn with shame, wondering how she would have told him, if she told him everything they did in that bathroom - those  _private_ things when she checked you. Did they laugh about you in private? The betrayal isn't missed by Negan, and he's quick to nip it in the bud.

 

"Not in much detail, she  _insisted_ I hear it straight from you, but I think I have a rough idea that I don't need to ask unless you  _want_ to tell me," he emphasises certain words, and does his best to seem approachable, but he's struggling. "I just want to know why you didn't tell me when I asked you directly,".

 

"You asked me about my days in Alpha Centauri," you chew on your lower lip until it swells slightly "-not my nights."

 

Negan fell quiet.

 

_Fuck._

 

You'd got him there, and it was true, he hadn't. The first thing he learned with you was that he had to be  _specific_ with his language, because it seemed you learned that the less you actually say, the less trouble you'll be in. It was ultimately quite frustrating, but not your fault. 

 

He decides to change gears, because he wants you to be a semi-functioning human being now that he's decided there is no way in Hell you'd ever be returned to your people.

 

"You can tell me anything," he tries that instead, trying to slide into his teacher cap "-I wont get angry if you do. I know - you- " shit, how are you supposed to believe that when the past two days, anger is all you've seen? Negan actively resisted the urge to rub his temples in frustration, he's not used to having to be this delicate with  _anyone_ and it's proving to be a test of his character.

 

"Are you scared of me?" he asks as softly as he can, though he knows the answer, he wants to break your submissiveness enough for you to answer. His tone is needful and insistent, he's looking at you unblinkingly, with the same sort of intensity you'd dreamed of him having, though with none of the anger fuelling it that you had pictured him with.

 

Unfortunately, you aren't terribly good with your emotions, but after all of those years with Payton, it isn't surprising, so much like with Marshall, the words tumble out before you can stop them, in a tiny, breaking little cry.

 

_"You give me nightmares!"_

 

Negan is quiet.

 

He isn't often at a loss for words, but for a moment, he is. He's used to being terrifying, but that heart-to-sleeve honesty you've shown him from your first day with him is something he isn't used to. He's used to people pretending to be far braver than they are, or mutely hiding their dislike and simply putting up with him, and usually some effort has to go into getting such a delicate admission. Most people had far too much pride to come out with that right from the get-go. But not you. You are not a prideful creature. His silence scares you, and you have a ream of apologies on the end of your tongue which die before they can leave your lips when the man slowly leans forward into your space, staring at you with his cool, half-lidded stare.

 

"Well, that wont do," he murmurs softly, reaching a large hand out for you slowly - the way someone might move towards a deer, or a frightened animal.

 

"I can see why," he said understandingly "-I can see why I would scare you," but nightmares? Fucking _really?_

 

You're certainly not someone to exaggerate, he doesn't even know if he'd believe you capable of telling a lie, you come off too innocent to be able to do that.

 

"Yesterday you saw something that... if someone gave me a choice, I wouldn't have had you see at all. You slipped my mind, honestly. But there was no need. Not for _you_ \- you're a good girl. You were probably the _last_ person who needed the daylights scaring out of them, and for that part, I'm sorry. I'm not sorry that I did it - Marshall needed to fucking learn that he couldn't endanger so many people with his pussy actions, but I  _am_ sorry that you saw it," he said after a long moment. You go absolutely rigid as you feel him move loose strands of dark hair falling out of your weak attempt at a messy bun with only a strip of material to hold it. Negan is delicately tucking it behind your left ear - though you look at him like you expect his fingers to wrap around your throat instead.

 

"And I don't fucking say that a lot," he emphasised, he almost wants to know what part in your dreams - nightmares - that he has, but he senses you're embarrassed enough just from knowing Sherry told him about your UTI. He doesn't really think it's anything to be ashamed over, antibiotics will clear it up, it happens, and it isn't your _fault._

 

 

In fact, none of this shit was.

 

"And Troy?"

 

He narrows his eyes - didn't he already...? No, actually, he didn't  _apologise_ for it, but he did confess he was the unintended target, an  _accident._ The look in your face though - there is a reason you're so hung up on it and he can see it in your eyes, just as he could instantly tell who was fucking who when he drove Lucille through someone's skull, and the heartbreak would make itself apparent on their partner's faces. They all have the same look - and it's the look that you're giving him now.

 

"You loved him, didn't you?" the sudden change of tone makes you look at him in surprise, before your cheeks go bright red, eyes downcast.

 

"Yeah," you have no problem admitting that to anyone whose not Payton, but sans saying it in the dark, quietly, at night - it isn't something you're sure you've ever heard out loud under the harsh light of day. "But I suppose it doesn't really matter now," you mumbled, looking down at your lap.

 

It hadn't really mattered at the time, either.

 

"It never really did," you shrug with your bruised side.

 

_You killed the only man who could have possibly learned to love me someday._

 

Troy's death struck a note of finality with you, and perhaps that's why you were so hung up on it, now Troy was dead - nobody would ever love you again.

 

"But there was a chance, I guess. Payton wouldn't live forever. You might have killed the only person who could have possibly ever learned to love me," you wrinkle your nose in faint distaste, as though this were an easy conversation to have. It wasn't. But you've spent years accommodating to the fact that you would not be loved, so it was shockingly easy to put out there. Easier than everything else had been.

 

"So I think I'm still getting used to not having a Troy anymore,"

 

Fuck.

 

Why weren't you  _angry?_

 

Negan looked at you, and wanted to see anger - but all there was, was a sad resignation.

 

 

"Then I'm sorry that I killed Troy," he said smoothly, for whatever good that would do. "He wasn't supposed to die in the first place, but I guess that doesn't fucking do you much good now, does it?"

 

Sigh.

 

You just shrug, and continue to look down. Negan feels himself getting a bit agitated by it, not in a hateful sort of way, but an irritated one. He wanted you to be able to look him in the eyes and maintain that, so his leather-clad fingers make their way under your chin, his thumb and forefinger hold your face up so you would be looking him in the face. He leaned forward off of the couch somewhat, and then pressed into your personal space as he did it, that casual intensity drowning you under his gaze.

 

"Answer, don't shrug," he murmurs. "Never be afraid to answer me when I ask you something. I don't know what's going through that little pretty fucking head of yours, or what all I'm doing in your dreams that makes you want to jump out of your fucking skin the second I'm in the room with you. But if you're scared of ending up like Marshall, you should know that I don't  _do_ that shit willy fucking nilly. I especially try not to make it a habit of doing that to a lovely little face. If there's a problem, I will pull you up on it myself _privately. "_

 

"But I will  _not_  give you the iron," he gently tilts your face to one side, his eyes looking over your appraisingly "-it would be such a fucking waste."

 

A waste...? Is he making fun of you again...? Like when he calls you 'Pretty Girl' ?

 

At least he isn't angry anymore, because he's returning to his usual self now at least, if he's calling you that. 

 

"Besides, if I'm in your dreams, I'd prefer them to be a little fucking nicer," he smirks a little, but the innuendo goes over your head a little. "I don't think scaring the livin' shit out of you is a good way to do that,". You wondered if, for a moment, he was telling you not to be scared of him at all. That would be foolish, considering the room for violence he had - putting your guard down would not be wise. That said, every single thing Negan has ever said to you thus far has been true. He said you wouldn't have to perform for men, and you didn't. You didn't have to do anything except be good at a craft, know your place, and clean up after some messy women to earn your humane treatment. That's all he'd promised, and it'd been true. He never  _lied_ to you.

 

He might be a monster, but he hasn't  _lied_ to you.

 

"I'm saying you're one of very few people here that doesn't have to be scared of me, understand?" his thumb brushed down your lower chin, if he was bothered by how you chose to speak about Troy - The Love that Almost Was - he doesn't show it.

 

Remembering he expected an answer, you manage a watery, shaky smile.

 

"I understand."

 

He grins, and lets your face go, reclining back and letting out a content sigh.

 

"Good. Glad we bonded and cleared that shit up," he glanced down at his lap - and lets out an inelegant snort.

 

"Even if my hard-on is kinda ruining the moment,".

 

You're uncertain if you're supposed to laugh, but a small heave of amusement - an almost laugh, escapes between your teeth before you quickly squash it down. It seemed to be the reaction he was going for, because he laughs, even if you don't. You don't want to find him funny, it feels wrong to just readily accept the answers he gave you about Troy and Marshall. It feels like you should be angrier, or mourning for longer, but the truth is - Marshall did something very wrong, and Troy had been part of the wheel of abuse you'd suffered since a very young age. The difference is, he maintained Payton's lies, and was the softer side to his angry one. It didn't make Troy  _good_ just by virtue of being better than Payton. You loved him, or at least, you thought you loved him, but it's so hard to rip yourself apart over the man you love who lied about the entire world being dead, when it wasn't.

 

It's a bit of a mess, really.

 

"You're allowed to laugh," Negan said with a small smirk, not calling you out for having glanced down when he'd called attention to it. Your laugh is a nervous one - and he'd be content to leave it, but he cant have you having a panic attack every time he visits the boudoir, can he? Without really thinking, he drums his thigh - like he did last time - and asks you to take a seat. It's perhaps not the smartest thing he's ever done, now that he knows more about your background  _and_ knows you're utterly terrified of him. Your breathing has petered out though, so he thinks it's alright. Much like the first time he'd asked you to do it, you perched yourself on the bonier part of his knee. To his surprise, you're utterly nonplussed by what's going on in his pants, even if he's made some effort to tuck it away lazily.

 

"C'mere a sec,"

 

 _Well, is she supposed to be freaked out? It's kind of been her whole life -_ he realises darkly, before pushing the thought aside as you look up at him apprehensively when he moves you to that softer part of his leg again. You're small enough to fit on one with little effort, so it's a lot less intimate than it could be, but there's no denying the sudden, palpable tenseness. Your entire body is opposable and yet, you're rigid when he moves you, still looking at him with thinly veiled fear. Negan supposes he cant dispel that level of fright with just a few words, but he wants to understand it, because there's plenty of people who have reason to be  _that_ scared of him, but he doesn't class you among them. In fact, he'd say he went out of his way to be nice to you. It was time to clear this up, he thinks - before it gets out of hand.

 

"What exactly are you scared of me doing?" he frowns "-you know I'm not going to make you whore yourself, and I'm  _not_ going to ruin your lovely face, but I cant tell you what you can and cant expect if I don't know what you're scared of," it was a little bit manipulative, but it was working.

 

The cat is out of the bag, you thought - and if he wants to snap your neck like a baby bird he could do it with one hand if he wanted to, so you may as well spill your guts. You're intoxicatingly close to him, and feeling that same lusty heat radiating from his torso as he held you there, his eyes glittering as they took you in. It was markedly different from the loathsome stare you had imagined when you closed your eyes and went to bed last night, even his smiles weren't filled with quite so many monstrous teeth like Dream Negan was, and this close, while incredibly wide and incredibly strong, he was certainly not quite so ogreish as your imagination made him to be.

 

It's little use keeping things from him too, wasn't that the first thing he'd ever really said to you? Not to mess him around? To always answer him when he asks you something?

 

When you're silent, he realises it's because you're struggling to articulate your fears, so he tries a better method and rephrases.

 

"What did you dream I did to you that was so terrible?" 

 

You look down at the gap between your chests and feel your ears start to burn. _'It's a bad idea to fuck me about, so when I ask you something, I need you to answer, okay?'_ \- the phrase is burned into your mind, especially with how close he'd been earlier, even before he asked you to sit on his lap, when he asks you something, you  _answer._

 

And you, not being terribly used to this idea of personal privacy, answer him over your own discomforts.

 

"You picked me up by the throat," you managed, cringing when he raised a single brow at you, as though it was already starting to sound a little outlandish to him. "You burned me alive." You neglect to mention why. You feel like handing over your fear of being useless and disposable to him would give him total power over you while you're already down and helpless. So you don't.

 

Well, shit.

 

Negan is quiet for a long moment, before his hands go up both of your shoulders, one stops short of your only working dungaree strap, and the other drifts to the white, baggy shirt which is supposed to have the other strap pulled down over it. He supposes it's because of the extreme subcutaneous bruising you'd come into the Sanctuary with, rather than a weak brass button, and is careful to trace his fingers over the extent of the bruising, over your shirt - so he doesn't have to pull it down to illustrate his point. He  _remembers it,_ clearly.

 

"I'm not sure if I should be offended or not that you assume I'd do that," he said, surprisingly calmly, dark brown eyes staring deeply into you as he spoke, fingers still tracing over where you've been hurt prior. "-but considering that is all you seem to know, I wont go postal over it. Even when my wives really,  _really_ piss me off - fuck, even with that shit Vanessa pulled tonight, I have never, not once - in forty years on this miserable planet, laid my hands on a woman to hurt her. I don't really plan to start doing that now,".

 

Your eyes go wide - and you want to believe it, you do, but you'll suppose you'll see when you talk to Sherry about it. Even if she betrayed your trust, she could at least give you an answer about Negan's habits.

 

"You don't fucking believe me, do you?" Negan sighed, you didn't even need to say it.

 

"That's fine, you can ask any of the women upstairs, it's true," he stops his gentle tracing and continues to give you a slightly unimpressed look. "Would it make me a big, impressive fucking man if I beat down on a tiny little woman who barely reaches my chest? You can answer that, by the way."

 

"No s- um, no," you falter - about to call him sir for the umpteenth time when his severe expression stops you.

 

"Well I hope you learn to think better of me then, because I wouldn't. There's plenty of people here with a reason to be scared of me and rightfully fucking so, but you are not one of them," he does his best to smile, but it comes out tight. "Now, go visit Marshall, I'm sure he'd like another visit."

 

You do your best not to show your shock -  _he knows about that?_

 

For a second, you wonder if he's omniscient, but dismiss the thought as he smirks at you and ushers you off of his lap gently. He hopes that by showing he knew about that, but that he doesn't care and that you aren't in any kind of trouble for it, that he lessens this image that he's some terrifying, nasty ogre.

 

 _She'd be cute if she wasn't a pain in my ass right now,_ he sighed.

 

 

 


	7. Annoyance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight points of view change in terms of focus, just a tad. Also shoutout to Broushka for leaving me such a lovely comment. This is probably the purest Reader/Negan I'll ever produce I swear. I just...urg she so cute ima die.
> 
>  
> 
> Song featured in this chapter, for the curiously minded: youtube.com/watch?v=tz6WRiNwujQ

 

You vow to visit Marshall often, delegating an hour in the day, whether it means you get up extra early, or go to bed extra late. Your impromptu heart to heart with Negan had meant that presenting him the sample piece had slipped your mind and he'd busied himself with business in another community, which stole him from you and the wives for a short while. It's still strange getting used to the idea there are more people than the ones you can see with your own two eyes, even the breadth and depth of The Sanctuary felt too immense, and you would seclude yourself into your leatherworks. You barely even leave for dinner. You don't even like the dinner lines, even if you're in a significantly better one and people know to move for you now, you do not like the sensation that goes down your spine as you feel the eyes of tired, hungry Saviors as you jump the queue by virtue of boudoir privilege. You sneak bites from the wives' food as you make it or you wait until everybody else has eaten, Rodney spoke to the Head Chef to fix and keep a dinner tray aside for you to pick up at the end of the day and rationed it down to simple anxiety, as you're terribly new to the place and really don't like the idea of muscling past other Saviors. This, rather than seeming weak, makes the Head Chef soften towards you, if only a little. 

 

There is a value to being humble, and it is too often forgotten in this new and callous world.

 

Simon is leading the Sanctuary in Negan's stead, and it seems he's been informed of Negan's gentler hand towards you - because he smiles when he catches sight of you headed into the health centre. It's nice to know there's one person who doesn't harbour any secret ill-will, or ulterior motives or anything nefarious of the sort. What you see is what you get, and Simon can respect that if nothing else. There has to be something in you that is worth Negan's efforts, he reasons. 

 

Marshall gets used to your visits quickly, even if there isn't much to say. A lot of the time, he's high on incredibly strong painkillers - as this is the most severe ironing Negan's ever dealt. He wants to reiterate that the safety of everyone in his commune is more important than his injured pride, and so the treatment Marshall got is so much harsher than the treatment any man has ever received for sleeping with one of his wives. It's why his burns are many shades and so much more profound, some are black, some areas are scarred with wet pockets still healing under Carson's care with blackened skin possessing deep lava-red molten cracks. It's a truly ugly sight, and Marshall can hardly stand the sight of it when he catches his reflection on any of Carson's surgical implements. But you look upon him anyway, and nestle your chin at the end of his pillow, chattering inanely about the progress of your work and how mean Amber was, and how you sometimes got to sit in on Rodney working and help him at the forge in your spare time.

 

"Say sum'thin," he'd slurred once, when you were suspiciously silent, he wasn't good company right now, but he just wanted noise other than silence, and Carson's pattering.

 

Sometimes, the painkillers are too strong for him to do much other than slur, but it doesn't deter you. He knows to expect you, even when his face feels too numb to move his lips to even slur you a welcome. He knows he's terrible company, and it's a petty thing in the grand scheme of "the end of the world" to mope about the state of his face, but he is. Sometimes, in his dreams - if they're painless enough with the painkillers - he forgets what he looks like, only to catch sight of it in the morning and suffer a damn near out of body experience as he adjusts to the horror made of him.

 

"You just fall asleep anyway," your voice had been soft but accusing, yet not in a mean way - you knew he needed the rest, and Marshall tiredly admitted he liked it when you filled the silence, as he isn't a very good conversational partner right now.

 

"Jush w'nna hear sum'fin," and that's how it had began. You didn't learn much about Marshall, and he learned more about 18th through 20th century leatherworking than he could possibly ever want to know, but you would fill the small room and half the hall with your witless chatter and muted tones. He just wants something to listen to the way you would listen to Troy read you Ted Hughes'  _Birthday Letters_ poetry compendium to lull you to sleep, and the way you would gently croon the Alpha Centauri children to sleep with lullabies. It doesn't matter how old you are, sometimes the silence can be unbearable, leaving you to focus on nothing but your own thoughts. You could wager that Marshall does not wish to be left alone with his own, or focus on the tingles of pain that managed to surface even under morphine. 

 

It's embarrassing for you to admit you don't know how to be better company for adults in a way that doesn't involve spreading your legs, but Marshall doesn't seem to care, and smiles wanly when you give him the tried and true method of getting "your" children to sleep. It means he doesn't have to talk, or try to pay attention to what you're saying when he's under such strong drugs, and instead he lets your low, lilting voice wash over him like warm water. It's not that you're a particularly good singer, but you're not terrible, and your duties being terribly domestic as they are, you have honed the kinds of sounds you can make, and the gentle tunes you  _do_ know have been tempered to perfection as best your specific sort of a voice can manage. 

 

"Thanksh Shortassh," Marshall managed, falling in and out of consciousness to your soft and gentle words, their repetitive versing - you're not even sure where you'd picked it up from originally. Others were from songbooks but this...this always felt like something you knew from long ago. Too long ago, in a memory just out of reach.

 

_"Little bird, little bird - fly through my window. Little bird, little bird, - fly through my window. Little bird, little bird, - fly through my window."_

It makes Marshall feel like a child, but his doped-up smile betrays him. He enjoys it anyway.

 

_"Find - molasses - candy,"_

 

You're so focused, now close enough to the man that you could sit on your knees on the bed near his head. It's closer, more intimate, but not too inappropriate - it just let him know you were still there without him having to go to the effort of turning his head, and when he opened his good eye, he could catch sight of your gentle features, swirling in his dizzied vision.

 

" _Through my window my sugar-lump, fly through my window, my sugar-lump. Find - molasses - candy."_

 

God, if he could fall into those dragged out syllables he would, and he isn't sure if he's imagining it, but he swears he can feel the hesitant touch of your nimble fingers tracing the outline of his burn. It doesn't traverse the wet, dead and dying skin for fear of spreading infection, but curiosity gets the better of you, and you take advantage for a brief moment so as to feel the roughness of the lesser burned perimeter under your fingers.

 

 _'Poor Marshmallow'_ the words ' _I deserved it'_ circle your mind as you murmur your tune, but when you catch his sleepy smile, you raise your voice a little more - and match his smile with your own even though his eyes are shut and he cannot see it. You're so focused that you do not notice the presence that takes up the doorway silently, assuming it to be Carson.

 

Negan stands in the doorway, having followed the tune from the end of the hall. He didn't prioritise checking on Marshall, he has no concern for the man himself either way, no. He wanted to ask about the nature of your visits, without asking you first. He wants to know what exactly Marshall is getting out of it, and to make sure his intentions are pure. You're a boudoir resident. You're Negan's property - and woe betide anyone who messes with Negan's things. Yes, you're a Savior and not a mere wife, yes, you do work for points, but you're his wives' maid and by extension,  _his_ maid. You are privy to intimate things and when he is physically at his most vulnerable point in the Sanctuary, he tells himself. He needs to make sure everything is above-fucking-board.

 

It's because he's cautious, he tells himself.

 

" _Chickadee, Chickadee, Fly through my window..."_

 

He sticks around for the end of the song - Negan didn't even know you could hold a note, and it's at this moment in time that he's painfully aware he knows very little about you  _at all._ He knows what he's gleaned from Sherry, and what you'll admit to, but about  _you?_ Very little, and it bothers him in a small, niggly way. He knows Dwight still loves Sherry and vice-versa, he likes a smoke and finds all sorts of places to stash his cigarettes and is a fan of rap metal. Simon was an accounts and business man in his old life, sold dodgy mortgages to unsuspecting idiots, he likes hard drink and has an appreciation for art,  _especially_ fine art. You like mouldy old bears, leather and you're domestic to a fault. You bent for men in ways you wish you never had to. See? He knows very little, and it bothers him.

 

"Night Marshmallow," you yawn and he almost mourns the song end, he cant remember the last time he got to enjoy live music. It's dead in a world like this, but now - he has his own little songbird, so that's something. The nickname almost goes over Negan's head - because he's comfortable and at peace as he lingers in the doorway, still riding the coattails of your sweet lull. 

 

A wild stab of  _something_ hits Negan when he hears you call him that, and watches you slide off his bed as delicately as you can, before fixing the position of a bear -  _your bear -_ near his shoulder and begin flattening the sheets up around his chest to make sure he's kept warm through the chilly evening and subsequent night.

 

It's akin to annoyance. Negan dubs the feeling  _Annoyance 2.0 -_ because it isn't a malicious sort of feeling, and no part of him wants to change any of your actions, it's just because it's fucking  _Marshall_ and goddammit, Negan doesn't think Marshall fucking deserves it one bit.

 

Still, he doesn't disrespect your efforts in putting the pained man to bed, and instead decides to leave. He has no desire to become anymore ogreish or brutish to you, so he takes his leave before you  notice he'd ever been there.

 

Negan returns alone, on another day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

This is one of those days where he's struggling to make sense of his own thoughts, and even prise his eyes open fully after having the slightly infected burns treated harshly and chemically by the good doctor, searing away the disease with antiseptic is enough to have him screaming for morphine. When Negan catches wind of it, he has the passing thought of perhaps him leaving the iron on too long, but dispels it idly, as he refuses to feel guilt for a man endangering the commune nor over something he cannot change.

 

So why is he here? - Marshall's certain he's dreaming, because when he opens his working eye all he can see is a wild swirl of colour. Usually it's the placid tones of the health centre but now he can see smudges of black - so much black, and flesh tones, but mostly darkness. It's the scent of leather which keeps him grounded, however faint it is - but it still feels like a terribly vivid dream, as he has nightmares of Negan often now. It's to be expected, after what he'd done. When he closes his eyes, before the dreamless sleep kicks in, he can remember every line of the man's face, every dimple as he smirked, and that abject lack of remorse in his eyes. It haunted him terribly, as badly as it had haunted you. Worse, even.

 

Sometimes, in his dreams - his better ones - he's brave enough to call him a  _complete and utter bastard,_ and shoves that iron clean up Negan's arse before doing the same with the sharp end of Lucille, because occasionally, vindictiveness overtakes him when the resentment towards his own reflection feels too much, and the pain of Carson cleaning his wounds makes him scream until he's stuffed with more medication. Sometimes (on your insistence) Rodney is present too, and both men feel a little out of sorts but oddly happy with the fact you're  _insisting_ that the three of you are a friend group within the first week of meeting. Neither of them want to argue the point, but Marshall knows that in any other world, had you not been in the Sanctuary, he and Rodney would probably never be more than friendly acquaintances  _at best._

 

"Be careful wif our girl, dun like 'er round yer forge," he'd slurred - it had been the last thing Marshall had said to the man, and when Rodney found himself nodding, he realised that at some point - you'd become their girl.

 

_Our girl._

 

He goes over the colours and scents he associates with Rodney, and determines this is definitely not him. At this moment however, Marshall doesn't feel quite as brave as he does in his dreams. This Negan feels a lot more real, even if he cannot be sure the man is truly there. It isn't Rodney, and it isn't you - it's a nightmare, he tells himself. Negan has no reason to stand in his doorway. Not a one. He knows for a fact the man doesn't care a whit about him, so he wouldn't be here to check on him, that much is certain.

 

The line of questioning mostly goes over Marshall's head, as he's barely lucid enough to even absorb them, let alone answer them -  but he tries. 

 

_What does she do here? When does she visit? What do you talk about?_

 

She sits. She talks. She sings. She comes whenever. I don't talk. Hurts too much.

 

The answers seem to satisfy the man, however short they are - but he finishes with a passing muse which Negan is certain is supposed to be an inside thought and not an "outside one" - being that he's as drugged out as he is. Negan can see why too, one look at his face and he can tell he's made a right ugly bastard out of the man, it's more severe than any other burning to date and in truth, he can only just stand to look at it, and he's one with a high tolerance for blood and gore.

 

"I f'got people could be like thah't," he manages, trying to steady his tongue to sound clearer and not like the dead weight in his mouth that it felt like under so much morphine.

 

Negan humours him anyway on his way out.

 

"Like what?" he's curious to know what exactly the resident pencil pusher thinks about you, but his answer is uncharacteristically blunt, and honest.

 

"Kind," Marshall's head turns away from Negan's direction, and he screws his eyes shut, breathing belaboured with pain as he pulls the sheet up so that it covers the legs of the mouldy old bear by his shoulders. Negan isn't sure what to say to that, so he doesn't say a damn thing, and begins to leave. Annoyance 2.0 barely rears its head, but it's there. Simmering under his skin for reasons somewhat unclear to him. It's because Marshall doesn't deserve you - he thinks, he's never done anything particularly worthwhile with the Saviors beyond put them all in danger, he tells himself.

 

He contemplates telling you not to be his friend anymore, but that'd hardly help combat that ogreish view you have of him, and the fact that you have seen the depth of his anger already does not make this easier, so he dispels the thought. 

 

 _Fuck you,_ Negan muses, with as much vindictiveness as he can try to summon. 

 

_Fuck you for being so small, kind and sweet to people who don't deserve it. Fuck you. Just, fuck you for being so fucking gentle. Fuck you._

 

* * *

 

Negan is a man.

 

Being a man, he thinks, he's hardwired with some certain urges and responsibilities that he has to maintain. One of them, is the safety of the women in his Sanctuary. Everyone's safety is tantamount, yes, and the idea doesn't come from archaic notions of chivalry so much as him being keenly aware of how quickly settlements have a tendency to lower the worth of women and begin to treat them like garbage - the same with kids. The crown weighs heavy, and yet he's still trying to build a community, rebuild humanity, and for what? Everyone was a resource, a commodity - not a life. It's hard to picture people as lives sometimes, and he loses respect for them each day as he sees them  _running, crying, scared._ Even his own people, sometimes. On a good day he can lie to himself and tell them they're cut from a different cloth but in his heart he knows they're all the same, and his general faith in humanity is quite low. 

 

You're everything he shouldn't like, the epitome of annoying and pathetic - and yet - it's the furthest thing from his mind as you stand nervously outside his quarters, after pining to Dwight to take you there. You, stood in your little half-fastened dungaree-dress, holding a black shoebox with a strip of material cut and tied into a ribbon on it with the best will in the world, apprehension in your large eyes, God, how could he hate it? 

 

Negan had opened the door with an unimpressed look when he sees Dwight standing sheepishly in his archway, before glancing down and seeing you - his expression shifting to something unreadable.

 

"She wanted to see you - I told her you were busy but - " but apparently, Dwight had a hard time telling you no. Negan can see why, and his lips twitch slightly at the idea of you managing to give the man a hard time, and when Dwight sees no telltale signs of ire, a small bit of tension releases from his shoulders.

 

"Never mind that," Negan butts in, cutting Dwight off harshly. "Cant help being high in demand with the ladies can I? But I suppose we all have our crosses to bare," he smirks. When he turns his attention to you, he notices the package in a bit more detail, and raises a brow, looking at how you're avoiding his gaze as much as you can. He summarily dismissed Dwight before urging you inside. You're hesitant to enter the man's private space - you had intended to give him the gift in the door and have him approach you in his own time if he had anything to say on the matter regarding some ambitious leather orders. Instead, you're now in his hallway and feel the deep blue tones emphasise how scarcely decorated it was.

 

For some reason, you imagined his "house" having more things in it. It wasn't under-furnished, or unimpressive. It was just a bit more on the homely side than you would typically expect. The only thing of note you see is that there are bleached squares on the walls where family portraits probably hung once, but had been taken down. There's something depressing about leaving family portraits up in the wake of the Collapse, and when Negan decided to make this his private accommodation, it was the very first thing to go. 

 

You shuffle inside, holding the curious box to your chest. It's the elephant in the room, but Negan ignores it in favour of trying to make you more comfortable, as you clearly aren't. In truth, you could have waited for his next boudoir visit, but you didn't want to have to present your handiwork while he was waiting impatiently to go and fuck one of his attractive wives, or bother him impetuously while he was awash with lust and wanted nothing more than to relax. After the last talk you had - as sincere as it had been - you could not help but think you'd prefer to catch him when he wasn't red-necked and slick with sweat. It had all been a bit too intimate - letting those waves of lustful heat get misdirected into your tiny little body as you sat delicately on one leg. He was ever patient and surprisingly delicate with you in ways that you would not assume a man like him to be capable of, even while still fairly obviously aroused and angered, but still. You didn't want to have to demand that of him again. 

 

It was too intense, though as of this moment - you're not sure if being in his private house is  _less intense._

 

"No need to fuckin' stand on ceremony," he grins bashfully, gesturing to the living room. "Go have a sit, this is a nice surprise."

 

His choice of words make you relax. He isn't annoyed - thank God - because you aren't sure how you'd come to deal with that if he would be. You knew from mumbles to Sherry that no wife had entered his private home when you curiously asked about where he lived, and why he so rarely stayed the night. With this background knowledge in mind, it felt like you were on some sort of Sanctuary-version of holy land, and that your very presence there was sacrilege in some strange way. You really, truly did not expect to be invited inside, and sit on the wide, deep red couch he has.

 

You do your best not to stare at Negan since it's hard enough to meet his intense, honey gaze, but it's hard to  _not stare._ He's shaved, and you can finally see what he looks like without the handsome salt and pepper facial hair which had made him looked like a ragged vagabond, or like an outlaw from one of your old books. Nervously, you clutched your magnum opus a little tighter, careful not to bend or crease the box when you did it. You can actually see all of the man's dimples when he smiles, and for some reason, the clearness of his jawline and the fact you can see more lines in his face when he smiles is a bit captivating.

 

He isn't beautiful the way Troy was, but he is  _handsome -_ at least to you, even with the slicked back hair that looked thinner than it was under the pomade he uses and highlights the fact it's lighter around the sides near his ears. Even his naturally severe silhouette manages to intimidate you slightly less.

 

Negan feels your stare follow him all the way from the hallway to the chair directly opposite you. He plonks himself in his favourite plush arm chair, which draws his legs together instead of his usual sprawl, before noticing how your eyes specifically linger on his jaw, making him rub it subconsciously.

 

"Something on my face, doll?" he decides to open with small talk, only for you to flinch when called out.

 

"You look different," you said quietly, cringing at how obvious you'd been and hoping to God he didn't perceive it as a rude stare, your intentions had been anything but. He looked confused for a moment before understanding dawned in his tawny eyes, resulting in a slightly amused smile.

 

"Hm? Ah, yeah. I shaved. Got sick of that shit, needed to shear it off," he said - you surprise him by blurting out a reply without thinking.

 

"It's nice," you didn't mean anything by it, of course, but now he had an expectant look on his face - like he wanted you to elaborate. He even pushes for it with a gentle "Oh?" - his eyes now glittering with the same amusement his lips showed, like he was enjoying your constant foot-in-mouth moments and your casual discomfort. You wished he'd have just accepted the answer that he looked nice, because now you felt a little awkward - but surely there was nothing wrong with a compliment, right? You may find him a bit on the scary side, his unpredictability and breadth for violence did frighten you, but he  _did_ go out of his way to try to make this less so, and to understand your fears. He didn't laugh at them, either. He had also always told you the truth, regardless of what you actually thought of him.

 

So, you'd tell him the truth in turn, there is no harm in that surely?

 

"I can - I mean," you frown, realising that factually, the words you were about to speak are inaccurate, and correct mid sentence "-it  _feels_ like I can see more of your smile," you uttered. You don't know why it sounds so awful to say out loud, it's like you've admitted to something that you shouldn't have, or like you've broken another invisible rule. You half expect the man to make fun of you, and there's a heave of amusement from him when you confess your thoughts, because you uttered them so blandly, as though he should casually be aware of the effect he had. In truth, Negan didn't put much thought into it, he's just a man who prefers his face less scratchy and prefers a clean look where he doesn't have to worry about catching crumbs and the like. It's just tidier, he thinks. He's not wearing his jacket either, and instead is in a long sleeve shirt that covers his biceps, but you can still see them flexing through the thin material.

 

He looks gentler like this, especially with Lucille upstairs and not held tightly in his hands or resting languidly over the coffee table.

 

Yes - maybe you could stomach this version of Negan - if only just.

 

"Well I'm sure you didn't come all this way to tell me how fucking nice I look," he smiled, the glitter in his dark eyes being your only real indicator that he appreciated it. You felt awkward though, and glanced down at the box on your lap, before deciding to get over and walk it over to Negan's chair.

 

"What did you need?" he's surprisingly patient, again. You, despite rehearsing what you were going to say over and over again in your head for a few days and then again on the way here, found yourself at a loss for words. It was just as awkward as when you had first visited Marshall, and ran out of things to say before thrusting the bear at him. Stopping short of Negan's arm rest, you push the box out from your chest, chewing down on your lip slightly before speaking.

 

"I made you a thing," you blurted.

 

Fuck. Out of all eight versions of your presentation speech you'd ran through in your mind, nowhere did "I made you a thing," factor in. Apparently, when you're this close to the man, your mind has a habit of going blank under the intensity of his expression of expectation. There's a small silence which ripples after your statement - he doesn't immediately take the box but instead puts his elbow on the arm rest and looks questioningly at the box. You've gone to the effort of making it presentable, like a gift - which is already a lost notion in this world, but he cannot fathom what it is he's done for you to want to give him something, or that you'd even take the time out to do so.

 

"Oh? Lets have a closer look then,"

 

Instead, Negan reaches for your wrist when you move the box a little closer and take a step forward, pulling you into a graceless collapse onto his lap without warning. On instinct you yelp, but don't fight it, feeling Negan's large hands come up around your waist and gently fix you into a comfortable position on his lap. It's the third time you've ever been on it, but the first time he's ever pulled you onto himself, and being sat in an armchair instead of a couch like all of those other times, his legs are drawn closed, leaving you sat upon both. It feels so much more intimate like this, especially as he repositions you on his body, feeling your body warmth ooze through your naked legs and dungaree dress into his thighs and upper body.

 

"That's better," Negan smirked. Heart jumping in your throat, you wriggled slightly to turn yourself on his lap instead of have your back lay flat across his chest, sitting a bit more upright away from his upper torso to give you some room between your bodies. 

 

" _Mm, mm, mm!_ " he makes a noise like he's just eaten something particularly delectable, eyes settling on the amateurish attempt at making it look like a gift, despite a lack of wrapping paper, he's almost sorry to ruin it, but not quite. "-look! At! You! You've even gone and  _gift wrapped_ it - I'm almost sorry to have to ruin it," he said, teasingly. Even when light-hearted, you aren't completely sure if he's mocking you or not, so you just shift uncomfortably a little on his lap, finding a softer position before shoving your hand into the large front pocket near the base of your dress, feeling it hike slightly until you shove your hands down the front and the gravity rolls the denim back down.

 

"But daddy's  _gotta know_ what's inside," you feel your cheeks flare up slightly as his breath tickles your face, watching as he threads a finger through the bow you'd made from your own attempts at making ribbons and gently pulls it apart until it falls into your lap. He takes the box into his own arms, both of them coming up around you like buttresses that lock you into place as he raises the shoebox lid off. In truth, he doesn't know what he expects, and while he's waiting for the air to release so the lid can ooze off of the box, he turns to you, and takes in your expression. Your eyes are screwed shut and your cheeks a bursting red even over your tan complexion, he feels the heat radiating off of you like a radiator, but like this - he's noticing all sorts of little things about you he's never noticed before. Your eyelashes are a lot longer than he thought or cared to notice, and the dryness of your chapped lips was gone now, as was the sallow bent to complexion when he had first dragged you off of that truck, put you into his own, and decided there and then that the Saviors would take you home, like an errant stray.

 

Spectacular blush notwithstanding, there's a healthy flush in your cheeks now that had not been there before, and even though you may be a far cry from what Carson would call "healthy" - Negan can already see the difference in you, and you haven't even been there a month yet.  

 

That fresh leather smell hits him immediately when the lid finally releases the box and it plonks onto your lap with a gentle  _plop -_ causing your eyes to flutter open, and almost startle him as he's caught peering deeply into your face. The smell is viscerally pleasing, like cracking open a book with that gorgeous scent of decayed ink, or like sitting in a pine fresh car in the days before the End, after it'd been washed and cleaned out professionally. There's very few things Negan can compare it to - but those come close. Looking in the box, he sees it's lined with delicately cut, rich red material, as though to pad the box and make it look more luxurious than it is.

 

_Points for presentation, Teeny-Tiny._

 

It's a nice enough nickname, but the fact it's still derivative of Thirteen annoys him, and now  _everyone_ calls you that, once he'd let it slip in Simon's company, because it seemed nobody was a fan of calling you by a number. Petulant as it might sound, it didn't feel special to him anymore.

 

Sitting in the centre of the box are a pair of fine black leather gloves. The first thing he notices about them is that they have more material around the wrists, and so he picks them up with the appropriate reverence, fingers brushing over your handiwork. Surprisingly, even before The Collapse, Negan had never owned anything made custom for himself, and the first thing he does is tug the leather gently, testing the tightness of the thread before slipping a large hand into the right glove. Somehow, without measuring him, you seemed to have made something that fits him gorgeously - none too tightly, and none too loosely. He flexed his fingers, and found all of them still allowed to move dexterously in the leather.

 

You study Negan's face the entire time, trying to get a measure of his reaction, and split the silence with your nervous ramble.

 

"I wanted to - to make you a sample piece, before we got properly set up. To show you that - that I could do it," you stammered out, voice barely broaching above a murmur because being this close to him makes you wildly nervous, especially when waiting for a harsh criticism. His eyes, however, are barely blinking, his naked hand tracing the deep embossment that was lovingly carved into the leather. 

 

"So I thought I'd make you something for - for winter, that's a bit thicker than your...usual gloves, so - so you don't get cold," Ah, yes - he can feel the inside lined with some sort of fur, but the whole thing feels so medieval that he isn't sure if it's synthetic or not. That's not to say it isn't stunning, because it is. They're gloves, and they cover a slight bit of his wrist, but not too much - designed to keep him warm, for sure. He can already feel the light build up of heat inside the one he's wearing. His eyes are glued to the absolutely gorgeous script you've painstakingly embossed into it. It's the kind of thing that took hours, he can tell - and the closer he brings it to his face, the more he can see the detail in the script, which he can only describe as calligraphy that'd make Edwardians green with envy, and yet it is by no means girly. He could imagine it stamped into a thick, archaic textbook from the Middle Ages, or carved into the temples of Rome. 

 

_Savior_

 

The "S" is thick and detailed, with more detail inside of it, with the rest of the lettering less detailed, but equally beautiful and adjoining. The pad of his finger presses deeply into the calligraphy and he can feel it's deeply scratched into the leather, and wont buff out any time soon. 

 

 _'Sweet fuck,' -_ is the only thought he can scramble together before he slides his hand into the other glove and clenches it into an idle fist, testing the fit again and letting his eyes fall on the design that took up the back of his hand. It's a set of wings, nothing more, nothing less. No words, and yet, even without pulling it close to his face, he can see agonising detail in the feathers, enough that he wonders how on Earth you managed the feat, not knowing the hours of strain you'd put through a jeweller's loupe just to do so, and how much your fingers would ache from the effort.

 

"God - fuck!" he says finally, gazing at them in wonderment, a feeling he doesn't have often.

 

"They're fucking beautiful," he says, when he realises you're entirely tight with tension, because you're unable to read if he's happy or not.

 

Negan watches you turn scarlet in his arms, before glancing away, smile stretching ear to ear as you began to glow under his praise, like a flower arching towards the sun. It's clear you aren't used to the praise, because you can't hold his gaze, but you have a fantastic smile that's entirely teeth and manages to reach all the way up to your eyes and spreads an ache in your rosy cheeks. He's certain that, if you'd had a tail, it'd be wagging furiously and thumping against his lap. Your eyes are wide and glossy with happiness and it isn't something Negan is used to being the cause of. Nobody looked at him like that, he's certain both before and after the Collapse,  _nobody_ had quite looked at him like that.

 

' -  _fuckity fuck - those Disney eyes - '_

 

"Well, now I have to get you something," he chuckled, silencing your protests by pushing a gloved finger to your lip, watching you sag slightly on his lap as he did so. He predicts your response before you do it, he already knows you'd be the type to furiously fight against any gift unless given a reason for deserving it, like "for work" or because your old rags don't fit. He predicts it, and doesn't even want to give such thoughts an audience.

 

"Ah, ah, ah. Whose the fucking boss here? Me, that's who. You made me something, now I have to get you something. It's only polite," you doubted a man like Negan gave two shits and a fuck for "polite," - but wisely keep your mouth shut, looking across from him uncertainly.

 

"Okay," you manage, preening under his praise and going terribly still as he brushes the side of your cheek with the back of a gloved hand delicately.

 

"They're so fucking soft too," he smirked, letting you feel it against your cheek, marvelling at how you would just let him  _do that -_ and would not show discomfort. By all rights, you should be, but you're well trained enough not to, and the thought almost makes his smile drop, until he feels you tilt your head ever so slightly, and lean into his touch. Your eyes flutter shut for a moment and he realises he's fallen into a stroking your cheek, and you aren't stopping him or looking at him strangely. Sometimes, Troy would turn his touch from gentle to clinical, to keep out Payton's ire, and Payton himself had only ever been cruel. You'd almost forgotten that touching could be like this - so you lean into it, and you keen for it, letting out a small, content sigh when the hand moves up into your hair, and delicately begins brushing it from the top of your head to the end. Even when his hand was ghosting the back of your neck - fingers tangled into your dark locks, where you feared he might throttle you - the fear had gone. 

 

" _Damn,_ Daddy is so fucking pleased with you!"  he murmured "-you are goddamn fucking  _good_ at this,".

 

You flush darkly, keeping your eyes closed as though you're afraid he might stop giving you this  _good touch -_ and mumble a reply.

 

' _Pleased **with me,'**_ \- he could have said the gloves, but he said with you, and that was what had you redder than was normal.

 

"Needed to show you I could... I'm good... at stuff, so you - you don't get sick of me and give me back," you confess it, mostly because you need to hear that verbal confirmation he'd given you on your first real talk with him when he decided on a whim that you would never be returned to Alpha Centauri. You need to hear it but you remember his words from your last chat, that if you don't tell him your fears, he cannot alleviate them, so you confess.

 

' _As if anyone could get sick of...'_

 

He cuts off his own thought - it's too sentimental - and moves the hand going down your hair so he can grab for your chin in a hard, less delicate and marginally more aggressive way than he'd ever had. He jerks your chin forward so you're nose to nose with him almost, an intense tawny gaze looking at you severely, his words taking a steely undertone.

 

"Give you back?" he makes a disappointed cluck with his tongue "-As fucking if! No no no, let me make something  _abundantly fucking clear_  to you sweetheart. When you become a Savior, you become one of mine, and when you live in my boudoir, living in  _my_ space, and are allowed into my  _private residence -_ as you are now," his voice takes a low, dangerous purr which makes goosebumps raise upon your skin. 

 

"You become property of  _Negan,_ do you understand? You are exclusively  _mine._ I do not  _lend_ my shit. I do not give my shit  _back._ When you become one of mine, you are mine  _forever -_ Payton's days are fucking  **over.** He had his time with you, he squandered it, he wasted it, he didn't appreciate you nearly enough for your fucking skill or you as a human fucking being," and Negan is not a man who oozes respect for human beings, so this insult is particularly devastating. 

 

"I want you to fuckin'  _say it,_ okay? Say it so I know you understand."

 

You swallow nervously, wondering if this was his anger coming up - but it seemed like it was more a queer sense of neediness, a need for absolute control, and for you to acknowledge it.

 

"Say -  _I belong to Negan."_

 

You shiver, and wiggle a little get yourself comfortable again when he lets go of your chin.

 

"I belong to Negan," you mumble - if it's supposed to fill you with a sense of dread and finality, it doesn't - there's just a sweeping relief. He'd told you everything you needed to hear and more, not just that you wont be going back but that Payton's reign of terror had well and truly ended, you'd just hoped you weren't trading one for the other.

 

The man licks his teeth like an animal who'd sized up a good meal, eyes glittering with satisfaction as he resumed stroking your cheek and doing his best not to make a smug remark about the way you leaned into his touch, in case you stopped.

 

"There's a good girl," he cooed, and you do your best not to feel ashamed of how much those words made you so happy, knowing full well how utterly patronising they are. You cant fight the watery smile that matches your stare and it's at that point, Negan thinks that he's settled on a name to call you, and he's so fucking pleased with himself that he just needs to find a way to slide it to you, and see how you like it. 

 

"I'm sorry, I should have made it fucking clearer to you how things are when you're one of mine," you catch a rare apology from the man, without prompting this time. You're uncertain how to take "one of mine" except that it means you have a kind of blanket protection that isn't afforded to just everyone in the Sanctuary, and even if you have to share that with six other women, it makes you feel special, because you don't have to give up any part of yourself to do so. All Negan expects from you is good work, good craftsmanship, and a good attitude in return for the buckets of kindness he's shown you.

 

"That's okay," you mumble shyly, fiddling with the end of your dress self-consciously as you feel his eyes roving down you, appraising you again. 

 

"Now," Negan begins, closing his eyes and repositioning you for what feels like the umpteenth time on his lap. "Being that you're here, I may as well tell you the good news early."

 

"Good news?"

 

"Marshall is going back to Allocations when he's better, for a bit, anyway," he says carefully - he'd been considering this for a long, hard while. He doesn't want to foster anything between you two, because you're Negan's property - but he doesn't want to be the monster that takes away the precious few things that seem to make you happy, and so he reaches a mental compromise - where he would have to keep a sharper eye on you.

 

"Long enough to figure out what you're going to need on a month by month basis, and then he'll hand off the list to someone else. His points, of course, will be reset to zero and he will lose his job," there's just no way he can let someone who screwed up that badly be given a position of power, he had to demote the man in status, but short of putting him on Maintenance and therefore away from you completely, he had to make a third option, and fast.

 

Your face falls - like you can tell where he's going with this.

 

How wrong you are.

 

"At which fucking point, I will be relying on  _you_ to keep him in check, because he'll be working for you. I got word your operation is getting quite big with the things in mind, and that you'll need extra hands. I think this is a good compromise, because there's no way on this fuckin' planet he's going back to Allocations after what he's done," said Negan calmly.

 

You stare at him for a long, nerve-wracking moment. You fully expected Marshall to get reassigned and to never see him again, Dwight tried to warn you of as much after you'd finished one of your last trips to the health centre and caught sight of him milling about. It's why you took so much extra cares with the man, thinking it might be the last time you see him. The idea that you wont fills your chest with a broad, sprawling warmth intermingled with relief - enough that you push yourself forward and wrap your skinny arms around the man's thick neck without even thinking.

 

Negan lets out a surprised wheeze, feeling the side of your face brush his own. His arms lock you back into place quickly, as it seems you almost instantaneously realise your grave faux paus, and go to scramble off of him. Your chest crashes against his, and you reposition awkwardly in his arms so you aren't forcing so much weight on his thighs and end up with a slow, incidental little grind against his groin, radiating your warmth against the man as much as you physically could. Relief washes over you when you feel his chest rise and fall against your own as he lets out a deep, guttural laugh from the base of his lungs.

 

He can't quite remember the last time he's had an embrace like this, and if he'd been holding anything, he'd have dropped it instantly to wrap his arms around you and seek that utterly primal comfort. Some of it has to be sexual, but he cant account for that really, all he feels is this satisfying,  _animal_ urge to suck in all of your frailty and vulnerability and drown it in his impossible strength. It screams at that  _be a fucking man_ urge that he cant control just to cover you in that sense of ownership until you  _smell_ like him. 

 

You're so perfectly small compared to him and most in general that every part of you that's pressed into him feels intrinsically fucking right.

 

"Thank you,  _thank you!_ I'll teach him everything I know! I'll make sure he's the  _best -_ he wont ever screw up again I  _promise!_ Thank you, thank you!" you gasp into his ear, feeling goosebumps down your neck at the feel of his breath as he tucks his nose into the crook and inhales against you, unwilling to let go. 

 

"Just remember," his tone is low, and extra quiet yet increasingly dulcet in how close it is to your ear, he feels you shiver against him, and smirks out of your vision. A trace of remorse hits him, like he should feel some sort of shame for the bubbling excitement that this was causing. It's wrong - you're too delicate, too  _damaged,_ he thinks, and it's so wrong that it's filling him with a misplaced sense of yearning towards you. Yearning an absolute dominance that he wants to just snatch out from Marshall because he doesn't fucking deserve it. "What we went through," he growls.

 

Annoyance 2.0 raises its head again that you're this happy over the goddamn  _pencil pusher -_ and so his needy, dominant grip becomes imperceptibly tighter.

 

"Say it again for me," he breathes needfully in your ear, feeling you shiver against him as he does it. It gives him a sense of smugness - that even as much as you'd previously been scared of him, he can still raise that kind of a reaction in you. He brushes some of your dark hair back so he has better access to your ear, and repositions when he feels you move your legs to try to tuck your knees either side of his in the small space offered by the overlarge arm chair, because this embrace forced you to twist at an awkward angle until you gave up and straddled his hips. It was especially uncomfortable in your denim, which was designed to hug around your thicker thighs and was now hiking embarrassingly, but he didn't seem to care.

 

"Say,  _I belong to Daddy Negan,"_ he wants his own moment, he wants his own  _little bird_ moment with you and he wants it to blow Marshall's out of the water, because you do not  _belong_ to him.

 

"I belong to... Da--daddy Negan," the word sounded odd in your mouth -  _daddy -_ you hadn't said it in so long, but it seemed to please the man who heaved against you in what you assumed was amusement.

 

"Again,"

 

It's almost like he's as insecure as you are.

 

"I belong to Daddy Negan," you mumbled, unsure of why this felt strangely embarrassing in a way you cant define, it isn't a bad sort of "embarrassing," but the kind that made you shiver and not want to admit it in front of other people, even if it felt quite nice to say in private, as though you're utterly disowning Payton at the same time.

 

_Jesus fuck why was this doing things to him? It's wrong, so wrong. You're too - fuck. No. You're too sweet. He can't ruin you. He promised he would never do this to you -_

 

But he's asking, and you're obliging, that evil part of him insists, feeling more of your thighs than he had originally cared to as you shifted against him to try to roll them back down before pressing your backside back into his lap. He ignored the reluctant warmth trawling through him, feeling his own heart start to beat uncomfortably in his chest as you pressed against him taut.

 

"Once more, Bambi. I want to make sure you get it," he hates how oily his words sound, but swears he feels you giggling against him because of how silly it has begun to feel to you, which isn't helping matters at all.

 

"I belong to Daddy Negan,"

 

_Get fucked, Marshall._

 

"Good."

 

And then there is quiet, but he refuses to unhook you from himself as he shifts around beneath you like he just can't find something comfortable for himself before sighing and giving up. You don't feel much, but the harsh seam of his jeans against you which just feel more noticeable than before, you ration it down to your denim having ridden so far up that you can finally feel the roughness against your bare thighs and nothing more.

 

"Bambi?" you question it when the silence feels like it's stretched too long, and you need permission to unburrow yourself slightly so you can look him in the face. To your surprise, his eyes have darkened somewhat, and his skin seems a little flush, like you'd overheated him too much by sticking to him like fucking molasses, but don't equate it with anything beyond innocence. It's enough to make even Negan feel like a dirty old bastard when he looks at your confused, wide-eyed stare, before he sits upright a little off the chair and flicks your nose delicately with a glove-clad finger. It makes you go cross-eyed when he does it, and he chuckles again.

 

"Yeah, Disney-eyes. Do you like it?" he smirked, as though nothing were amiss. "I wanted a special name for you," _like you and fucking Marshmallow -_ "You know I've always fucking hated calling you Thirteen."

 

"People started calling me Teeny-Tiny 'cos of Simon," you point out shyly, making a wild stab of irritation hit Negan over something so petty.

 

 _No, I started it,_ he wanted to say, but kept the petulant urge inside, before brushing his hand back through your hair again and relishing in your subconscious lean towards it.

 

"Which is well and good for Simon and everyone else, but I want a special fucking name that only I get to call you, that's just for us, because you're  _mine_ remember? Not Simon's. Not Marshall's. Not Sherry's. Not Rodney's. Not any of the other fucking wives' - you're  _mine_ and I'm going to treat you that way. A special girl deserves a special name, just like Lucille. So, whaddaya say to it, doll? Do you wanna be my little Bambi?"

 

It's perfect, he thinks, because you're doe-like, and wide-eyed and pinned with tragedy right from the fucking get-go. 

 

He watches you turn that  _fabulous_ shade of scarlet that he's starting to enjoy now.

 

"I like Bambi," you mumble.

 

And that was that.

 

 

 


End file.
